Reticulated
by syntheticaesthetic
Summary: Marble Hornets. It had been optimistic to think that it was all behind him now. Foolishly, stupidly, optimistic. He should have known that he'd never truly be free. Maybe he really should have done what Alex said, because now its all happening again, and he's losing control and this thing is so much bigger than he had ever realized. Tim Wright, post entry 87, later chapters graphic
1. House of the Rising Sun

_There is a house in New Orleans,_

_They call the Rising Sun._

_\- House of the Rising Sun, Lauren O'Connell_

The smoke from his cigarette drifts to the ceiling lazily, joining what's left of the steam from his too bitter coffee. He's somewhere in Louisiana he thinks, looking outside the window at the row of small shops bathed in early morning light opposite him. He's not entirely sure how he got here, or why. All he knows is that he's been driving since June, with no purpose and no particular destination in mind.

It's October now.

Adjusting the long sleeve of his shirt, Tim barely notices the chill that fall has brought with it, even down here in what's probably known locally as "the bayou" or something. He's not sure - he doesn't know anything about Louisiana. He wouldn't be able to tell a crocodile from an alligator or a swamp boat from a pirogue. Tim's never even been on a lake, let alone in a swamp. He's seen them - lakes - recently even, he supposes. He's taken his time in his travels lately, no longer in a rush to get from A to B. The stakes aren't dire anymore. He isn't running for his life.

Its been a little over five months, and truthfully he hasn't gotten far. He's only two states over from where he started, which by rights really should have only taken him a couple of days at his old pace. But it's different now. He doesn't drive for nearly the same amount of hours in a day. When he stops somewhere he stays for a couple of days; a couple of weeks. It doesn't matter. He's not really exploring - there's an intent inherent in that. No, its more like he's just…wandering. A landmark here, a lake there, a scenic route in that area…Nothing stops Tim from seeing and experiencing anything he wants, but he takes no pleasure in it, and certainly doesn't set out with a goal in mind each day.

Sometimes he works. He skims through discarded newspapers looking for short-term odd jobs; takes them if he feels so inclined. Some lawn-mowing here, some help moving there. Brainless stuff, mostly. Things he doesn't have to be tied down to take. Jobs where people don't even need to know his name, really. Just exchange the cash in return for services and bid a good day! It's worked decently well so far. Its not like he spends too much these days. There's no camera upkeep and no tapes to buy. He's got to pay for gas to keep the car running. He tends to get a hotel for more extended stays in some places, but he can occasionally skimp and just sleep in the backseat if he feels no need to linger more than a night. Wi-fi tends to be free at the hotels, and Jay's computer works just fine enough to get him connected to whatever's happening on the internet these days.

_somedayshecan'tstophimselffromcheckingthechannelfromwatchingitfromseeingjayfromseeingbrianfromseeingalex_

He reaches for his coffee and takes a giant gulp. It's gone cold.

As if on cue the waitress approaches. She gives him a shy smile as she gestures at the coffee pot she holds and then to his mug. He slides it her way.

"Can I get you anything else?" Her accent is different - nothing like he's ever heard before and certainly not like the rest of the people in this town. He shakes his head at her.

"No, thanks," he tells her hoarsely.

She hesitates. "Need me to empty that?"

"Sorry?"

"The ashtray? Looks full."

Tim looks down at it - its really not all that full, and he wonders if she's just bored and needs something to do. He's been the only customer in this diner since they opened this morning. "Up to you," he tells her, leaning back to give her access if she so chooses.

She does, taking it through a back door, and leaving him alone again.

Toying with the corner of a small laminated pie menu, he wonders how much it would cost to wrestle an alligator or to go catfishing. That was a thing in these parts, right? Either way, he's not quite ready to move on from this sleepy little town just yet. New Orleans is probably only an hour or two's drive away, but the big city doesn't appeal to him at the moment.

Not that anything really _does _appeal to him these days.

His phone vibrates in his pocket. Surprised he fishes it out with one hand, nearly dropping it in his coffee.

_Hey how r u? Where r u? Safe? Pills still working, but make me really tired. Same 4 u?_

Jessica. Again.

He feels slightly guilty every time she texts him. For the first two months after he left her in that parking lot, he refused to answer any of her worried texts. As time went on she became increasingly persistent. Once, he had texted her back telling her to stop. She texted eight more times in the hour after that to spite him. At around month three, he'd received a text that had made his blood cold.

_Jay didn't move, did he?_

It had left him paralyzed. Even if he had wanted to respond to her, he wouldn't know what to say. He had lied, just as he always had, and he'd been caught just like he'd always been caught.

_Tim, I found the videos. I saw everything._

That one drove him to shakily reach for his pills and down two of them in sheer distress.

_Are you okay, Tim?_

A part of him wanted to tell her, that no, no he was not okay, he was alone, and scared, and unsure of whether he had done the right thing or not, of whether Alex was right or not, of whether or not he'd ever be "okay" again.

_I'm fine, Jessica. Everything is fine._

Her response was the first thing to draw a noise of amusement from him in months.

_Yeah, sure whatever, buddy. Keep telling yourself that. _

And then: _Let me know if ur not. I can help. I want to help. _

He imagined her taking a shaky breath as she typed, worried about becoming involved, but unable with her moral sensibilities to leave him out in the cold.

_Let me know where u are and if ur safe once in a while. I'm worried about u. Maybe one day we'll talk about it. I have a lot of ?s._

Every couple of weeks Jessica texts him, checking up on him, and every couple of weeks Tim responds with the same thing: Still fine. Still traveling. Sometimes he sends her pictures from his phone, showing her where he is standing at that exact moment. She seems to like that. Other times she asks him questions about the medications she's been put on, asking if he'd ever had it and how it had been for him. Eventually, he realized that he was happy to answer her questions - these ones anyway.

_theeasyonesthesimpleonestheonesthatwon'thurtherputherinharmswaymakejaysdeathnull_

Its about the only useful thing he can do these days, and he wonders how much his own experience would have been different if he'd had someone to talk to when he was in her position. Truthfully, he kind of likes it when she texts him - he feels a little less lonely every time his phone vibrates.

He still has to be careful though. He can't get _too_ close to her. Just in case.

His groggy thumbs begin a reply. _Still fine. Some diner somewhere. Safe. Sorry about pills - same ones? If so: normal. Try lemon juice in water for more energy._

He imagines her reaction as she reads his response - he predicts the phrase "not helpful" will come into play.

Instead he receives: _That's nasty, Tim. Ew._

The waitress returns with the ashtray and sets it down just as he lets out a soft snort, shaking his head. She lifts her eyebrows at him. "Let me guess, your girlfriend is teasing you?"

Unconsciously his hand goes to the back of his neck. "Uh, no."

"Ah. Boyfriend teasing you?"

"Again, no."

"Significant other of any sort of humanoid affiliation?"

"What?"

"Nevermind. I'm just being nosy. Sorry." She scrunches up her nose in a sort of way that suggests merriment. "I was just beginning to worry about you. I hadn't seen you make any sort of facial expression all morning. Glad to see you can laugh." She turns and moves away to the swinging door and the back room before he can respond.

The phone vibrates again. _Seriously tho, where r u? Take a pic. _

_Nothing to take a picture of Jessica._

_ …__Ur at a whore house aren't u? In the am? Tim u should be ashamed of urself! _

_Not at a whorehouse, Jess._

_Then where?_

_Louisiana. _

_House of the Rising Sun! Ur at a whorehouse Tim!_

_Wasn't aware the whole state was a whorehouse. my bad._

_PICS._

Tim sighs but lines up the camera on his phone to catch the small bar across from his booth. He tries to be artistic and get his mug of coffee into the forefront of the shot, but he doesn't know how successful he is. He hits the shutter button just as the door from the back opens and the waitress steps back through, arching her eyebrows at him again.

"You know you have to pay extra for that right?" she teases him, tilting her head and placing a hand on her hip.

"Guess I'll need a tab then."

He relines up the photo - sans waitress - and sends it to Jessica before pulling out a few bills to leave on the table (plus a decent tip), downing the rest of his coffee, stubbing out his cigarette, and leaving.

He doesn't have any grand plans for his day. He wanders up and down the short streets but it doesn't take him but a couple of hours to wander in and out of the shops. There's not much around. He's not landed himself in the average tourist spot, that much is obvious. He was lucky there was a small hotel at all, and a cheap one too. He wouldn't have been able to stand another night in the cramped car.

It's a fishing town, an old one. The population seems small - one of those places where everyone knows everyone else and outsiders are easy to spot. He probably shouldn't stay too long, since he doesn't have any real business here and no family to speak of. Early on in his travels he used to make up reasons for his traveling - books he's writing, research he's conducting, relatives to visit. The appeal faded after some time, but his lack of a cover story makes people nervous.

He wanders down to the pier (he thinks its called a pier) and lights another cigarette as he looks out into the water. He's not sure if it's the ocean or not. Two older and work-hardened men lift crates of fish and other sea-borne foods off of small boats and onto the dock. A woman is stationed not too far away, gutting the fish as her dog thumps its tail upon the ground beside her, hoping for something stray to go its way. Tim isn't sure how long he stays there, leaning against a wall and chain-smoking as he watches them.

Later in the day he finds himself browsing through the local grocery, taking his time as he selects a few snacks to get him through the night. He contemplates a proper dinner for a moment before grabbing something microwavable instead. The evening finds him sat upon his hotel bed (he books rooms with only one bed now), with the lights off and the tv on. Every so often he pushes a button on the remote that changes the channel, but after a while it all blurs together and he doesn't really care what he watches anyway.

He's asleep before the sun even sets. He tosses and turns all night, but doesn't wake until sun up.

Showered, dressed, and hungry, Tim contemplates his options. There seem to be two places to eat in this town - three if one counts the bar, four if one counts the grocery. He usually doesn't eat at the same place twice as a general rule, but something about the diner calls him back. It's busier today - there's a whole three other customers this morning, sat at the bar and digging into an early morning pint of _something_ to go with their steak and eggs. Tim slides into the booth he sat at yesterday, and lights his second cigarette of the morning as the redheaded waitress from yesterday approaches, his coffee already in hand.

She looks slightly harried as she shoots him a small but genuine smile as he spares her a mumbled "Morning."

The guys at the bar are a slightly _mirthful _bunch, but they don't bother him. He's content with his hot, bitter coffee and his cheap cigarette and the soft clanking of dishes from the kitchen. He swipes a copy of the Sunday paper from the next table over, before slumping in his seat slightly as he peruses the local news.

He's reading about Catfish Joe's retirement from his 35 years of piloting a swamp boat when obnoxious finger snapping reaches his ears.

"Hey, Red!"

One of the men at the bar is staring at the door to the back room, as if looking at it will summon the waitress back. He mumbles something to his companions before shouting again. The third and fourth time he does it, his face becomes progressively red. When the waitress returns, Tim wonders what to call a color that is equal parts red and purple.

"Look, Freckles, when I call for you, I expect you to jump."

The look on her face suggests that she wants to mockingly ask him "How high?" but Tim has to commend her for her restraint. Instead she settles for a polite "What can I do for you?" as she manages to put on a sweet smile.

"What you can do is get my goddamn order right!"

"I'm sorry?"

"You fucked it up, girl. I said I wanted my eggs on the runny side.'"

"I told Lafayette to do them sunny side. He didn't?"

A hand shoots out to grab her arm, making her flinch. "RUNNY SIDE. I said fucking runny side. R-U-N-N-Y. Are you stupid or something?"

She blinks at him, attempting to keep her composure. "Sorry, I must have misheard you. I'll take it back and have him do it right…"

"Don't bother." The man stands, and his companion follow him out the door. Without paying. The waitress stares after them for a brief moment before sighing and beginning to clear up the dishes, mumbling under her breath. Tim winces in sympathy. It's too early in the morning for anyone to be dealing with drama queens of that caliber.

"Some people, huh?" He says it before he can stop himself. She turns to him, brows raised.

"Sorry?"

Tim turns to face her, committed to the conversation now. "Oh, I just said 'some people huh?'"

She nods solemnly. "Yeah. Those guys in particular. He knows he can just throw a fuss and usually get what he wants. No one can really do a thing about it, except just let him run out of steam. Still, I just wish he wouldn't take it out on me." She nods to the half-eaten food. "That'll come out of my paycheck. Despite rumors to the contrary, I do enjoy making enough money to you know, _live_, and stuff." She tosses a stray napkin up into the air so that it can sail its way to the trashcan. _Three points. _ "Its not my fault I can't tell what he's saying with that stupid beard."

Tim involuntarily cocks his head to the side, inviting her to ease his confusion despite himself. "Oh, right. I'm Deaf. Partially deaf anyway." She pulls her hair to the side and bends the top of her ear to reveal her hearing aid to him. "I need to be able to see people's mouths as they talk so I can try to make sure I'm hearing it right. But…beardy over there…well it makes it ten times more difficult, not to mention he slurs something awful when he's drinking."

Tim nods in what he hopes is an understanding manner as he reaches for his pack and his lighter, fumbling with it as he attempts to get it lit. She throws him a look as she disappears with the dishes. It looks like it's going to be one of those mornings for him too, if he can't get his damn lighter to work. He's about to give it up and put the cigarette back into the pack when she returns with a cheap green zippo in hand and passes it wordlessly to him. Gratefully he holds it to the end of his precious nicotine receptacle and lights it, giving her a toast as he attempts to hand it back.

She waves him off. "Keep it. I've got like a thousand of them."

"Thanks." He hesitates for a moment, before pulling another cigarette out of the pack and offering it to her, gesturing to the seat across from him. _Fuck it. I can have a conversation with a human being for once. It won't kill us. Probably._

_whendidhegetsobold?whendidhegetsolonely?jessicahasn'ttextedtodayjayhasn't—_

She glances around, before deciding to join him. Tim's never been friends with another smoker, so it fascinates him as she lights up herself (borrowing the lighter previously in his slightly nervous hand), inhaling deeply the same way he does when he's been deprived for too long.

"So… deaf huh?" he asks, his own lips wrapped around the stick that will hopefully shorten his lifespan.

_ifhetalkshismindcan'trace_

She furrows her brow at him, gesturing to her own lips. "Wha- oh, right. Sorry." He removes the offending item before repeating himself.

"Yeah. Both ears to a degree, but my left ear is worse than my right by far. I have some residual hearing, so the aid works well enough. It makes things louder at least, even if it doesn't help my brain translate it into speech. But there are lots of factors that can make it harder, you know? Things in people's mouths like food or gum or cigarettes; stuff covering their mouths like mustaches, beards or hands; or just plain old not facing me when they talk. I prefer sign language, but would you believe me when I say most people don't know it?"

"Imagine that…" Tim offers mildly, a small grin forming despite himself. He takes a slow drag and exhales, resisting the urge to close his eyes and drop off to sleep while the smoke fills his lungs. Instead he asks, "So, being a waitress was at the top of the list of career options? I mean, its a lot of…you know, talking. And listening."

She snorts, a decidedly un-lady-like sound that lifts a corner of his mouth slightly. "I know, right? There's like so many options around here."

"Why do you stay?"

"Habit. Lack of any other better ideas."

Tim doesn't have any response. He's basically living the nomadic version of that answer.

They sit in silence for a few moments, watching the separate streams of smoke entwine and reticulate gently. Tim tries not to notice the little details, like how her brow furrows as she thinks, or the color of her nail polish, or the shape of the spattering of freckles on her face. He doesn't want to know what her favorite tv show is, he doesn't want to know how being deaf affects the way she interacts with the world, or if she prefers halibut or cod. Tim doesn't want to be friends. He doesn't want to get involved.

_he'sjustsodamnlonelysometimessolonelythathischestphysicallyachessomuchhethinkshe'shavingaheartattack_

He's glad she doesn't press him for conversation. He's glad she doesn't ask him where he's from or what he does because he has no answers -

_heneverhastheanswersoratleastneverhastherightanswersshutupstopittimdon'tthinkdon'tgetinvolvedjustleaveherbe _

They both jump when the door opens, and she hastily stubs out her cigarette and jumps to her feet, sparing him a quick glance as she seats the new customer, sets out a menu, and grabs a refreshing ice cold water.

Tim is gone by the time she sets it down on the table, the only trace of him left his payment for the coffee and the still warm cigarette sitting in the ashtray next to hers.


	2. One More Day, One More Night

Chapter 2 – One More Day, One More Night

_"One more night, God I've had to fight  
to keep my line of sight on what's real.  
One more day, I fear I've lost my way,  
I don't know how to say what I feel.  
Someone better hurry I'm all alone.  
And I keep breaking down,  
breaking down, you know?  
No one ever taught me to be on my own.  
And I keep breaking down  
breaking down, you know?"_

_\- One More Day, One More Night, Tom Petty &amp; the Heartbreakers_

Tim's been in this town for five days now. Five whole blessedly uneventful days. Normally he'd have moved on by now, but day by day a sense of weariness has begun to seep into his bones to join the increasing chill of fitful mornings. Every place he stops at invites him to linger just a little bit longer than the last. These places try to cajole him into meeting the locals and learning the secrets of hidden nooks and crannies surrounded by brick and moss. Each time he packs up his car, he seems to move slower and slower.

He hates to acknowledge this behavior. It means admitting that some days he'd like for nothing more than to find a place to settle down in – a routine and a job.

_He never thinks about finding _people _to spend his time with. The idea of socializing makes his skin crawl – not because the idea itself is unpleasant, but because of the possible repercussions his prolonged presence could cause._

Tim doesn't like thinking about how old he is getting or how hard his body is taking his chosen lifestyle, with its lack of proper nutrition, lack of sleep, lack of a _bed _molded to his body shape_. _He fears the day that he refuses to move on. He fears winding up in a place like this, with a tight-knit community, frequent get togethers, Sunday church meetings, and "Hey-a Tim, how you doin'? Want to have dinner with me and the Missus tonight?" There is nothing for him in a place like this.

The sky is pregnant with the promise of rain. As he looks up into the sky the clouds, threateningly dark, move at a faster pace than he can keep up with, especially since his bad leg tends to act up in any sort of weather at all. The sunshine that blessed the roofs of this community since he'd arrived has disappeared, leaving shadows in the corners of buildings Tim hadn't even noticed before. It sets him on edge.

As the first droplets begin to fall, he makes his way into the diner (which he hasn't failed to grace with his presence at least once a day) and slides into what he has subconsciously started calling "His Booth."

_Yesterday some asshole was sitting in it during breakfast. Tim had to resist the urge to glare at him the whole time he was there from where he sat at the bar, since he refused to sit in any of the other booths. _

As he shakes small droplets of water from his hair, he notices the redheaded waitress lying on the countertop of the bar, sprawled ungracefully, her arms sticking straight up into the air, typing on her phone. He shoots her a glance, before considering skimming the menu, stopping himself as he remembers that he's already tried everything this place has to offer at least once. He gives her a moment to finish what ever oh-so-pressing thought she has that must be conveyed right this minute, before rubbing the stubble on his jaw and clearing his throat. He can only go so long without coffee, after all.

She doesn't move.

Biting his lip, he tries again. "Miss?" he asks tentatively.

She starts, turning towards him, her eyes wide and body tense. She didn't notice him arrive.

"Sorry!" She rights herself, sliding the phone into the pocket of her frilly pink apron, and drops to the floor. "They took the bell off the door - " she explains as she circles the countertop, grabbing his much needed caffeine and bringing it to him " – not that I can really hear it anyway – but its better than nothing. Some kid was dicking arou- I mean playing around with it, I guess."

Tim feels like he should let her know that he really doesn't mind all that much, but the amount of effort it would take to figure out the best way to convey this makes him want to sag further into his seat. _It's going to be one of those days. _He settles for rubbing his eyes, hoping that one day everything will stop seeming grainy. As she pours his coffee for him she gives him a sympathetic look – one that she's been sporting more of every time he shows up. "It's a waffle day, isn't it?" she asks him gently.

He considers for a moment. He likes waffles. They're fluffy. They're warm.

_They're expensive. And he's running out of money. _

Tim tries to surreptitiously discern the price difference between all of his breakfast options and mentally calculate just how much he has left. Waffles are definitely out. So too are the eggs benedict, the "ho'cakes," and the omelet.

_Pretty much the whole menu is out. Should have been more careful._

He clears his throat. "Just the coffee, thanks."

"Are you sure?"

He nods.

"Okay." She disappears, leaving him to his waffle-less existence. He nurses his coffee for an hour, before digging out what he can spare for her, picking up the newspaper from the next table over, and meandering back to his hotel room. He spends the next hour pursuing the articles before attacking the "Help Wanted" section. He finds nothing that he can apply for without signing himself up for settling in for the long-haul in the Bayou State. Two hours after he's left the diner he's even more concerned than he was about the state of his wallet. Another thing to put on the list of reasons staying in a place like this is not for him - the lack of job opportunities. Even for someone who lived here permanently, the listing is pretty sparse what with the economy the way it is, and Tim doesn't suppose that the people around here are diligent about updating their craigslist opportunities.

It's only around noon and Tim is back in bed, trying to block out the worries from his head and the rumbling of his stomach. He rues the day he set foot in that diner, and the day that he returned to eat there again.

Greasy and lukewarm as the food may be, it's the closest thing he's had to a home-cooked meal since…when? He can't remember. It's been hospital and microwavable food and 7-11 fare since as far back as he can remember. He thinks Brian probably cooked him something once or twice. He doesn't remember Brian having the attention span for great cooking, but it was better than what he could do himself.

It's dark when Tim wakes, the blinking red of the bedside clock telling him that it's nearly 8pm. No longer able to stand the sight of the same four walls, he grabs his key and wanders through the town aimlessly. Really, the whole place is just one street with a collection of homes on the other side of it. There isn't much to do. There isn't anything to explore. If he was brave it looks like there is a road that leads to the swamp that he could take, but fighting alligators in the dark would be a mistake of Jay-sized proportions.

He winces. Even now, thinking of all of Jay's fuck-ups still hurts. He should have known better than to have left him to his own devices. He should have -

_ Stop it. You can't change it. _

_ itshouldhavebeenyou_

_ This isn't helping. _

_ neithteriswhateveritisyou'redoinghere_

He buries his head in his hands. Is this really going to be the rest of his life? Arguing with himself (_with his other self?), _wandering around the middle of nowhere on zero money and no plan?

He can't live like this.

Off in the distance he can hear a banjo playing, the soft twanging of strings set apart by the occasional shouts of merriment from the town bar. _No doubt the locals are having a "hootenanny" filled with moonshine. _He wanders toward the music, trying to suss out the melody filling his head. Underneath a tree sits an old man in a rocking chair, the wrinkles in his skin deepened by the moonlight and the white in his hair illuminated by the dim streetlight. The look of concentration upon his face is one that Tim wishes were upon his own – one of his few true amusements in life had been his ability to pick up any instrument he so chose and figuring out how to play any song he'd ever heard. It was the only thing that had ever made him feel whole.

He doesn't know how long he's been standing there before the old man's eyes are locked with his own. He smiles, a crooked grin missing most of its teeth, and waves a hand towards him. "Come on out, son. I don't bite - don't got the teeth for it no more." He cackles to himself, but Tim can tell there's no malice in it. Still, he hesitates.

"Come now, keep an old man company, why don't you? You know, one day you'll be old and lonely, and you'll want someone to sit wit'chu too."

The man resumes the plucking of the banjo. It's a tune Tim can say with surety that he doesn't recognize. It sounds mournful to his ears at first, but the longer he listens the more he picks up notes of - contentment? Wistfulness? He can't identify the emotion properly.

"Get 'chu a bucket, son and come sit with me." The old man waves towards an old and rusty tin bucket, which Tim retrieves, hurrying to comply with the order of "Sit, sit!" It's uncomfortable, but he doesn't mind - not when the man's fingers - grizzled and gnarled with age and hard work still so deftly make his instrument sing.

Tim looses time there, listening. The chirping of the cicadas, the lamenting of the crickets, the warm but distant glow of fireflies conspire to keep him there. A feeling of not-quite-peace, but _ease _washes over him. He feels his eyelids going droopy when the old man finally speaks again.

"You play?"

"I, uh…" he trails off. He plays _something, _yes, but not the banjo before, and never something in this style.

"You play or you don't."

Tim shakes his head mutely.

"Don't lie to me, boy. You got it written all over your face. The ol' devil gotta hold of your soul!" The old man laughs, before holding out a shaky arm to him, offering the banjo. Tim shakes his head again.

"No, I haven't played in a long time. I should go anyway. It's late."

"What you should do is live."

"What?" His breathing has stopped and his heart is pounding, and he doesn't know why all of the hairs on the back of his neck are standing up.

"You deaf? I said what you should do is _live, _boy. You dead inside. I see it. Come back. It ain't your time yet."

There's something that hints at gentleness and caring in the old man's cracked voice, but nevertheless Tim tries to find a firm tone with which to tell him that none of this is any of his business. Instead his voice waivers as he bids the man a "good night" and rushes back to his hotel room. He spends the rest of the night sitting in the dark shaking - furious and confused.

He looks like hell the next morning. The dark circles under his eyes are back, and his hair is disheveled and unusually flat. He doesn't care. He scrapes up enough money from the glove box of his car to afford one more cup of coffee at the diner – that should be enough to keep him going long enough to pack, check out of the hotel, and hit the road. He slides back into His Booth with barely a grunt at the redheaded waitress, who mercifully places the mug in front of him and leaves without comment. He's nearly finished with it when a plate of waffles is slid in front of him, accompanied by an enormous mound of butter, a pourable syrup container, and a smiley face made of whipped cream on top. He grimaces as he looks up at her.

"The whipped cream is a hint," she says scrunching her nose up at him.

They're silent for a beat.

"Smile," she says flatly, glaring at him.

He musters up the most horrible movement of his facial features that he can, just out of pure childish spite.

"That…needs work."

He grunts as she pours more coffee into his mug.

"It won't bite."

"That's the second time in the last twelve hours I've been told that."

"Please, tell me you didn't _actually_ get bit by something?"

"No, but I'm beginning to think that biting is a thing around here."

"All you need to do is ask," she informs him loftily.

His coffee burns as he chokes on it. When he recovers he's faced with the task of telling her that all of her efforts are for naught. "I can't afford this, I'm really sorry. I can barely afford the coffee," he tells her in a low voice.

"Sorry? Speak up – can't hear you!" Upon seeing his face she backpedals. "No, I'm kidding I read your lips – really, no worries. On the house. Special for repeat customers."

"Really, I can't."

"Yes, actually, you can. Take the fork and the knife, hack the waffle into smaller bits – pretend this is Texas and you're after a young co-ed with a chainsaw if you need to – stab it with the fork, bring the fork to your face, and put it into the hole in your face that does the talking. Or, in your case, doesn't really…"

"No, what I mean is – "

She holds up her hand. "Really, it's okay. You look like you need it. Money's tight right? Don't worry about it, I've got it covered."

He doesn't know what to say. Instead he blinks up at her stupidly.

"Would it help if I helped you eat it? Because I can't bear to see good waffles go cold. Lafayette's waffles are literally the best, and luckily for you he's not hungover today, so they're extra good." She sits down across from him, slides the plate over to herself, and cuts off a small chunk, popping it in her mouth with a flourish. "Campbell's soup good!" At his blank look – "You know? 'Mmm mmm good'?" She sighs, sliding the plate back over to him. "I give up."

She stares at him for a moment, before directing her attention back to her own fork. "You know…" she drawls and she spins it around idly. "You can't very well put in a good day's work at the dock on an empty stomach, yeah?"

An hour (and a plate full of the best waffles he's ever had) later Tim finds himself at the dock, shuffling towards a large man in a waterproof coat and large rubber boots, looking for Ray, who's son broke his arm in a football game yesterday, rendering him useless in terms of being able to help out with the large shipment of crates from Shreveport due today. The waitress had said that Ray was someone who never skimped out on rewarding a helping hand, so here Tim is, hoping that he just may be in luck.

He plasters on his most approachable face, and takes a deep breath. "Uh, hello…"

"Hello, there. What can I do for you?" The man's voice is jovial and his eyes welcoming. Some of the trembling in Tim's hands subsides. Some.

"Actually, its more of "What I can do for _you," _really. I heard you need an extra hand unloading crates today. Uh, a waitress – Allie? She sent me."

The man looks him up and down. "Herveaux?"

"Uh, sorry?"

"Allison Herveaux? Little redheaded spitfire of a thing? Deaf as a doorpost?"

"Um, yeah, her."

"Hmm." The man nods to himself as he moves away to set down the bucket he'd been carrying.

"You're Ray, right?" Tim asks hesitantly, following him.

"I'll have to ask the missus, of course."

Tim barely has time to come to the understanding that the man was not in fact saying that he had to check with his wife to see that he was indeed Ray, but that he was responding to Tim's request to help, before he hears the stomping of more rubber boots behind him.

"Do NOT put that bucket right there! Are you trying to create a hazard?" The woman from the other day, the one that Tim had watched gutting the fish, is storming their way, dog on her heels. The large man flinches, backing away instinctively. "No, no, I wasn't going to leave it there, _cher_."

"Uh huh…" She spares her husband a scathing glance before turning to Tim. "And who are you?" She asks him briskly.

He clears his throat nervously. "Tim."

"Tim." She sounds unimpressed.

He shifts his weight from foot to foot.

The man jumps in, eager to appease his wife. "Allie Herveaux sent him to help with the crates today. What do you think, Ray?"

_Ray_ takes her turn at looking Tim up and down, reaching out to poke at his arms or tap at his back. He bears it in the hopes of a favorable outcome.

"You'll do alright enough, I suppose. You'll be _his_ responsibility today, though. I don't have time to teach you. I have a business to run, unlike some people." She stalks off, but not before giving her husband a pointed look, and Tim a not entirely unfriendly grin. Her husband's smile is not as difficult to read. Before he knows it a giant hand has seized his, and is shaking it up and down vigorously. "I'm Jack." There's something outrageously contagious about the man's demeanor and Tim can't help but warm to him slightly.

"Ever unloaded crates before, son?" Jack asks him, dragging the bucket his wife was so concerned with to the edge of a small – well Tim hesitates to call it a boat, but he has no other word for it.

"Can't say that I have."

"Well, you're in luck Tim, because it's pretty easy so long as you've got the muscle."

It was easy – mentally. They'd gone almost three hours simply moving crates off of several boats and into a nearby shed that Jack had called a smokehouse – though he'd added it hadn't been used properly for years, which was a damn shame, if you asked him.

_He'd nearly fallen out of the boat and onto his ass when Tim had actually responded with "Well Jack, what _do_ you think about the fact that the ol' smokehouse hasn't been used properly in years?" _

Physically, it was the most movement Tim had had consistently for a long time. Once they'd unloaded all of the crates from of the shipment, Jack had enlisted Tim's help with re-organizing the smokehouse's interior, and once they were finished there, taught him how to tie-off knots in fishing rope. Tim wasn't looking forward to stiff muscles and soreness for the next few days, but he _was_ looking forward to the paycheck that Jack seemed all to eager to help pad.

At nearly one in the afternoon Jack declares that they are getting more done in a single morning than he usually does while his son is around, and thusly they deserve a break. While Tim gratefully puffs on his long overdue cigarette, Jack runs back to the house for his meal – arriving back on the dock with enough extra to share with Tim. "Ray makes the best crawfish salad ever. You haven't lived until you've tried it. Or her jumbalya." He leans in conspiratorially. "My gumbo's better'n her's though."

They eat in silence for a few minutes as Tim surveys the area around him. He can tell that Jack is a hard man to keep still at the best of times, and sure enough his fidgeting gives way to attempted conversation.

"So... where ya from?"

"Alabama."

"Why ya here?" There isn't any judgment in his voice, just pure curiosity, but Tim has to force himself not to wince.

"I like to travel, I guess." He says after a moment's consideration. "I don't stay in one place very long."

"That so? Still, I bet'cha go home to ya mama every so often, yeah?"

Tim shakes his head. "We're…not exactly close." When he fails to elaborate, Jack claps a large hand on his shoulder, nodding to himself.

"Gotta be hard, not havin' a home base." Tim shrugs, reaching for another cigarette. "Don't know what I'd do without Ray or the kids. Keep me together real good, they do. Tell you what, you ever need a friendly face, come on back here. Ray'll adopt ya – she likes takin' in strays, yes she do. You'll be welcome here, Tim."

He doesn't know what to say. He barely knows Jack and here he is talking to him as if he were some long-lost uncle. This town is a trip and a half. He settles instead for staring at his worn shoes and listening to the calls of the birds.

Beside him, Jack gives an amused snort. Tim turns to him, following his gaze. Jack is looking further down the dock to where Tim can see a shock of red hair and the woman that belongs to it. She's standing near the edge of the water throwing a tennis ball for something that Tim can only assume is some kind of bear – a giant mass of fur and muscle that leaps and bounds playfully at the water's edge as it debates the merits of retrieving the ball. One of its ears flops alongside its skull happily as it wags its tail so hard its whole damn _middle _wiggles, forcing Jack into a boyish peal of laughter. Suddenly alert, the beast begins to trot their way, the redhead hustling behind quickly, scrambling for the leash she'd dropped earlier.

"I swear to God you brute!" she calls after it, finally snatching the length of fabric mere feet way from Tim. The dog looks up at her lovingly as a shrill noise emanates from its direction.

"Stop that!" She orders, making an angry gesture into her palm. "Goddamn german shepherd whistle!" she curses, looking exasperated.

Tim blows out a puff of smoke before raising his hand at her in a quick wave. "Hi."

"Hey," she returns, slightly breathlessly, while untangling her furry friend from a leash-trap of its own creation.

"Ain't he glad the weather's cooled down some?" Jack asks, reaching forward to take a hold of the dog's face and pat it with a fondness most people reserve for their children.

"Amazingly glad. He's perking up again. I was worried he was dehydrated for a while, or that he was getting the summertime blues or something."

"He did seem a bit down in the dumps last time I saw him."

"He seems to be fine now. Silly thing." A single ear perks up as Ray's voice reaches them, beckoning to Jack who excuses himself to attend to her. As soon as the big man is gone, the ear's attention is turned to Tim. A cautious nose reaches out to smell him, and Tim offers up the hand not holding the smoldering device the animal seems half-tempted to explore. Up and down his arm the nose goes, and then on to investigate Tim's shoes and his knees.

At one point Tim goes to give him a nice scratch behind that floppy ear, but he must scare him somehow, because the dog backs up to hide behind its frowning owner, its ears pinned to the sides of its head and its tail tucked firmly between its legs.

"Come now, what's the matter with you?" The waitress – _Allison – _attempts to coax the dog back to Tim, who holds his hand flat as a peace offering. "This is really weird, normally he takes to people really quick." Slowly she manages to bring the animal close enough so that Tim's palm is dampened with whatever snot is expelled from the dog's nose as it snuffles and explores, searching and assessing him. A small rattling can be heard (probably only by the dog and Tim himself) as the inquiring face presses against the pills in Tim's pocket, a small whine escaping his throat as he looks back to Allie. _Look! See! I found something! _

Tim withdraws the offending item from his pocket for inspection. "Sorry buddy, can't share. Not good for you." Allie's eyes narrow visibly, but she says nothing, instead turning her attention to the _thump thumping _of a tail hitting her across the leg.

"Don't shake your ass at him, Tank. He's not interested."

Tim snorts. "Cute."

"Very. Thank God I'm Deaf though – even what little whistling I _can_ hear drives me nuts. He's a talker."

"Can I take a picture? I have a friend that likes to see some of the stuff I see as I travel and I try to take some for her from time to time. She'd like this guy."

"Sure." Tim pulls out his phone and tries to frame the goofy look on the dog's face just right. The finished product that he texts to Jessica is wide-eyed and grinning. "Tank," he tries out. "Fitting."

"'Dumbass' would have fit more, but that's less acceptable in public."

"Hey now, he's listening."

"It's a surprise to me if he can hear anything. He never listens to what I say and that damn floppy ear does nothing but cover the hole he's supposed to listen with."

Tim fights a chuckle as she ruffles the dog's fur affectionately. Her words have a bite to them, but it's obvious that she thinks the world of the beast currently threatening to knock her off balance with its love.

"We're a good pair, aren't we, _cher_? Both of us with broken ears, eh?" She leans forward to plant a kiss on Tank's nose, who tolerates the gesture before moving forward to slam his face onto Tim's knee.

"I must have finally passed the test."

"I guess so. That was weird though. Like I said, normally he does this straight out the gate. It's gotta be the medication. Must have smelled the chemicals in your system." Her voice is strange and tense as she says it, but Tim can't dwell on it because Jack has returned.

"Did you go to the _fais dodo _yesterday, _catin?"_

Allie shook her head. "Sleep sounded better."

Jack makes a face. "You missed Ray's jambalaya."

"I'll catch it next time."

He turns to Tim now. "How about you? You go?"

"I don't have any idea what you're talking about, to be honest," he admits.

"It's a dance. A party of sorts," Allie jumps in. "Its kind of a tradition in these parts. Everyone gets together in the big old barn on the outskirts of town, and there's zydeco music and dancing and traditional food. Free, of course." She adds, not even attempting to be subtle.

"You gotta go sometime." Jack informs him. "There ain't nothin' like it." Beside him Allie nods, affirming.

"It's a true Cajun experience. You don't know Louisiana until you've been to one. Outside of anything that goes on in New Orleans, it's really the big social event for communities like this. "

"I'll keep that in mind," he says, but in reality, while it sounds as if it's what other people might consider a good time, Tim is not one to sign himself up for that sort of gathering. He has no intention of attending any parties, free food or not.

He's not that desperate.

_Yet._

Allie smiles down at him before tugging gently on the leash in her hand. Tank, who'd begun dozing while resting on Tim's knees, lifts his head to regard her, his expression offended. "Sorry _cher, _time to go." She addresses Tim now. "Will I see you at the diner tomorrow morning?"

He hesitates. "I really should be moving on soon."

She looks as if she really wants to say something but ultimately decides on biting her lip and nodding.

"How soon?" Jack asks. Tim shrugs. "Well, if you feel like hanging around tomorrow, there's more work you an' I could do." There's a hint of hope in the man's voice. His son must be a terrible worker.

"I suppose I could manage that… if I earned enough today to buy me coffee and breakfast tomorrow morning."

"Probably cover your hotel room too, if Arlene ain't bein' stingy with ya. And if she is, I'll give her a good talkin' to, sure 'nough!"

Allie and Tank make their goodbyes, leaving Tim and Jack to finish off the fishing rope repairs. Tim's fingers are numb at the start of the evening when their task is complete, and Jack fulfills his promise of a more-than-generous check. If he's careful he has enough to cover food for the rest of the week, and that's _before _he puts in his time tomorrow, which should help with his last hotel fee.

After they say their goodbyes Tim wanders down further along the waterway, eventually settling down into the sand of what passes for a beach down here. Jessica has texted him back with a nearly incoherent message that's probably supposed to pass for squealing joy. Tank has garnered a fan from a whole other state. After the fawning passes he receives another text:

_So where does this adorable cutie live?  
_

It's her way of asking him where he is now.

_Dog of the waitress from the diner I sent that pic from a few days ago._

It takes Jessica longer than usual to respond.

_Still there?_

_ …_

_ Everything ok?  
_

Tim sighs.

_Everything's fine. Just…_

He can't even explain his prolonged stay to himself, let alone Jessica.

_ Everything's fine. Just hanging around to do some work._

_ What kind of work? _

_Fishing, I guess. Un/Loading crates on the dock, fixing up some old rope. Organizing smokehouses._

_What's a smokehouse?_

_No idea. _

…

_How are you? _

…_ok._

…

_Dreams getting bad again. I'm sure its nothing. _

_Be safe. _

_You too._


	3. Warm Shadow

**A/N: Sorry for the long time in between updates when I promised they'd be quick. There's no internet in the middle of the woods. Happy Mardi Gras though - _laissez les bon temps rouler!_**

_Warm shadow,_

_Won't you cast yourself on me?_

_What you got in store for me?_

_Keep those, eyes closed, next to me._

_And I don't want another day to break,_

_Take our, steal our night away._

_ \- Warm Shadow (Dactyl Remix), Fink_

Tim stays to work two more days, making it a week that he's been in the same town. It's a record.

He spends his mornings at the diner, his days at the dock, and on the day that marks off the week he has shrimp etouffee with Jack and Ray. Mercifully their children are with friends that night. Sitting in their normal house, with home-cooked food from their normal kitchen, upsets him and it's all he can do to not let it show. He appreciates the sentiment; their openness and willingness to share their home and their food with him are extraordinary, and Ray turns out to be just as warm as her husband, but his brain screams at him the entire time about how _wrong _this is, how _dangerous _it is, and he spends the whole time over-analyzing every little movement, every little word, every little _breath _he takes while there. When he finally returns to his hotel room he is exhausted and more than looking forward to his morning cup of coffee in an _empty_ diner.

Allie's smoking outside the door as he arrives just after dawn. She looks irritable and tense. Her eyes dart from side to side, glaring at the empty street. Tim raises his eyebrows at her, but she says nothing as she turns to stub out her cigarette so that she can head back inside.

Tim waves her off, indicating that she should finish her smoke. "It's a bit chilly out here," he remarks idly. She shrugs at him, avoiding his eyes. Tim chances a glance inside, wondering if the men who'd hassled her his second morning here had returned. He sees no one.

_Not that that ever means anything._

"One of those mornings?"

"Something like that." They sit for a moment more, before she rises. "Come on, I'll get you some coffee."

She's restless. After she pours his coffee she sets about cleaning while waiting for his breakfast to be done. All of the tables are wiped down and spotless, the countertop of the bar likewise. She even goes so far as to wipe down all of the chairs and seats, though they'd probably been cleaned the night before. After Tim's breakfast is served, she begins washing the windows, digging into the crevices of the sills.

When he'd first started eating at the diner, she'd spend most of her time not waiting on Tim in the back room with the cook. In the following days, she'd occasionally sit up front near him, making small talk until another customer would wander in. This current flurry of movement is unusual to his experience. Even the cook is perturbed – before now Tim has never seen him, but he's popped his head out of the door to the back room three times this morning. The fourth time he finally demands her attention, and speaks up.

"_Girl,_ what the hell has gotten into you?"

"Go back to your kitchen, Lafayette," she snaps irritably.

"_Excuse me." _ Allie sighs as he saunters away.

"I'll have to apologize later," she says to herself, frowning.

Tim grimaces in sympathy before digging his pack out of his pocket and offering it to her.

_Jay's tired voice is echoing in his ears. "Is smoking your answer to everything?"  
_ He catches her eyes as he tells her something Brian always used to tell him with that wry, knowing, grin he had once had. "It's a wonder you have any friends at all with an attitude like that." She fixes him a look that makes him wonder if he had made it clear that he was joking.

"Sorry," he amends. "I don't have many friends either, if it helps."

"Makes sense, what with your situation and all."

He has a momentary spike of panic before his logical side breaks through – there is no possible way that she knows anything.

_areyousure?_

"What?" he asks before he can stop himself, cigarette dangling from his lips.

She looks stunned, like she can't believe she said anything. She stumbles over her words more than usual. "I-I just mean that – you know – what with all the traveling you do –"

"How do you know that I travel a lot?"

"I don't – I – I mean I guessed."

"That doesn't mean that I don't have friends."

"I – just – I mean –"

"You just mean what?"

"I just – get a feeling about people sometimes…"

"You get a _feeling _about people?" He can't help the sneer that comes across his face. He wants to give her the benefit of the doubt, but her feeble attempts aren't good enough to appease his paranoid side, and _feelings _like that usually turn out to be bullshit.

She's about to respond when Tim hears a commotion in the kitchen. Lafayette is swearing, pans are clattering, and a loud "_WHAT THE FUCK?" _further accents the strange morning. Allie doesn't so much as blink.

Clenching his jaw, Tim fills her in. "There's something going on in the kitchen," he tells her tersely. Shooting him a worried look, she stands and scurries through the door to the back. She doesn't return for nearly fifteen minutes, and when she does her face is nearly ashen. This does nothing to ease Tim's blood pressure.

He tries to play it off coolly. "What happened?"

She frowns, looking back at the door. "He thought he saw something. It scared him."

"Does that – is that something that happens often?" He dreads the answer.

"He comes in high sometimes, so he can be kind of out of it, but it's never anything too bad. He's probably just coming off of something."

Tim's gut tells him that she's unconvinced.

Worry settles into him throughout the rest of the day. The weather has been spotty the last few days, but today it's a veritable shit-storm. He and Jack struggle to accomplish even the smallest of tasks and eventually Jack writes it off as a bad habit. He gives Tim his paycheck (including what he could have earned had the weather not thwarted them) and tells him to go bunker down in his hotel room where it's dry.

He attempts scrolling the internet for an hour and finds nothing worth his interest. It's the same story with the television. There's no library in this town and while he's always been an avid reader he avoided bringing any books with him just to save packing space.

He ends up going to bed early.

He's in the throws of an uncomfortable dream when a sharp buzzing reaches his consciousness. He spends a moment in confusion before reaching over to the nightstand and clumsily swiping for his phone, answering it.

Jessica's voice is panicked and slightly shrill. "Tim, what's going on?" He rubs the sleep from his eyes, trying to force his brain into action.

"What?"

"Who is she? What's happening? Why haven't you said anything? Is this why you've stayed so long?"

"What are you talking about, Jessica?"

She hesitates. "You haven't seen it?"

His blood runs cold. "Seen what?"

Her voice is shaking. "There's a new Marble Hornets video."

The news slams into him like a diesel-engined truck. "I'll call you back, Jessica." He hesitates before adding, "_Be safe_." He presses the "off" button on his phone, cutting off her whispered reply of "You too."

He grapples in the dark in search of Jay's laptop. The boot-up time nearly kills him. He's not looked at the channel in weeks. Why now?

_youstayedtoolongyoucausedthis_

His fingers shake as he inputs Jay's password and email address into the website. Sure enough, there it is. The "secrets" thumbnail is dark and ominous. It is distorted, pixilated, and in black and white. Tim wonders if the shape is supposed to be a face.

He holds his breath and presses play.

Its similar to a totheark video, though even he can tell the difference in the editing. _brian'sdead._ This is much more simple – a rushed job. It's sloppy and inelegant. Tim can make out the swamp, with its plethora of Spanish Moss solarized. A lone alligator eye blinks up at him, and a rocking chair moves on its own, back and forth, back and forth, slowly. It's hypnotizing.

He sees the outside of the diner.

He sees his own outline, sitting at the window of the diner. A blurry and distorted shape, scratched out with long thin lines approaches him, lingers. As it slides into the booth with him, it becomes apparent that the figure is human and female, though the face is still hidden.

_Allie. _

It hits him then, that this video is silent. There's no undertone of noise – no whirring, no beeping, no eerie music, no distorted speech. There is nothing.

_Do you trust so easily? _the video asks, the words forming above an empty coffee mug.

_The swamp is full of secrets. _

_ What would it tell you, if you could hear? _

Tim shivers – he can make out a large body of water now, alongside himself, Tank, and Jack. Again, attention is drawn to Allie. She is distorted.

The outside of a small shack. There's an old truck parked in the driveway and a large fence around the yard. He sees _It, _for a split second. At first he thinks it is a tree because of its location, but that symbol appears on screen and he realizes how close _It _is to the window of the shack and how its orientation must mean its looking inside.

_You're running out of time. She's running out of time._

He doesn't like the implication of those words.

The inside of the shack blends with the background due to whatever filter it's been edited with. Jay's voice echoes in his mind, telling him that it's a halftone pattern, not that it really matters. What does matter is the figure of Allie, which is on the ground, dangerously near a coffee table, an anxious Tank hovering closely. She's seizing. Violently. Tim prays she didn't hit her head.

Appalled, he can only stare at the rigidity of her spasming limbs as the sounds of her whimpers mix with the soft whining of the dog, the return of sound stark with its previous absence. She begins sobbing in earnest as _It_ looks in through her window. Her body's trembling intensifies as Tank lays himself on top of her, growling now at the abomination assaulting them, now from the inside. It begins to lift its limbs towards them as the video fades to black, leaving only a single word: _Hurry_.

Tim doesn't need to be told twice.


	4. Where Did You Sleep Last Night?

_My girl, my girl,_

_Don't lie to me_

_Tell me where did you sleep last night?_

_In the pines, in the pines, _

_Where the sun don't ever shine,_

_I would shiver the whole night through. _

_\- Where Did You Sleep Last Night, Nirvana_

Ten minutes later Tim is pounding on Jack and Ray's door. The minute and half it takes for Jack to get up and open the door is painful. "Where does she live?" he asks immediately, giving him no room to inquire as to why he was causing such a fuss so late at night.

"What? Who?"

"Allie. Where does she live?"

"Tim, its nearly 2:30 in the morning."  
"I have to talk to her. It's important. Where does she live?"

He can tell that Jack is slightly disgruntled, though he tries to hide it with a smile. "I don't think she'll think it's nearly as important as you do at 2:30."

"Jack, it's an _emergency."_ He's too panicked to try and find another way to explain this to him. He hopes his urgency will be enough to convince him.

Thankfully, Jack sighs and gives in. "From the hotel, go left until you reach the outskirts of town. There's a fork at the end of the road, go right and keep going into the trees for a bit. Her's is the first shack you'll see – on the left."

"Thank you," Tim breaths, whirling on his heel and hurrying back to his car. When he finally arrives at her place, he practically leaps out of the vehicle before he's put it into park. He doesn't see _It _anywhere outside.

"Allison!" he calls, running up to the door and slamming his fist against it. It's been nearly 20 minutes since he's seen the video.

_How long has it been since it's been made? _

Inside, Tank begins barking.

"C'mon boy, get her up." He knocks again. "Allison!" He hears nothing over Tank's barking. He closes his eyes tightly and wraps his hand around the door handle.

"_That easy, huh?" Jay asks incredulously. _

_ "__Shh, don't jinx it, it'll never happen again." _

It's a goddamn miracle. The door opens with a creak straight out of a horror movie, but it opens. He makes a mental note to chew her out for not locking her door at night in the same moment he notices with relief that the abomination is gone.

He moves to step forward into the shack, but Tank is immediately up on his feet lunging at him, snarling and snapping his jaws. He doesn't go for Tim, but the rigid stance and giant teeth in front of Allie is enough to make him pause. Despite the cute floppy ear, Tank's demeanor is vicious.

"It's okay Tank – it's okay! I won't hurt her." He offers his palm again, unsure if this will sway him. Tim's never had a dog. He doesn't know how they function – not really.

Thankfully, behind her fierce protector, Allie begins to stir. Tank retreats to her position, washing her face with his tongue, prompting a wince. Tim approaches slowly, despite a look of caution thrown his way. "Like I said, I'm not gonna hurt her."

He slides to his knees by her shoulder, reaching out to touch her gently. "Wake up, Allison." It takes a few seconds of patting her cheek to get her glazed eyes to focus on him. With a soft grunt he tries to sit her up, but she immediately collapses back against his chest, breathing heavily. He's aware that there's nothing he can do until she regains her faculties – he's been on the other side of this equation more times than he can count. All he can do is gently check her skull for knots and hope she hadn't had any brain damage.

She's slow to return to herself. She's halfway between the thousand-yard stare and some form of alertness, but when she tries to speak her brow furrows in confusion. She makes a few half-hearted gestures towards him that he assumes must be sign language before she gives up. When he thinks she can handle it, he stands, pulling her up and into an ancient plush chair. He takes his time wandering into the kitchen to get her a glass of water.

It's a half hour before she even _recognizes _him, managing to squeak out a small "Tim?" He's known her over a week, but he can't remember telling her his name. Throughout town he's universally become "New Guy." He shakes his head to put that out of his mind for now. He'll deal with the video's cryptic messages and with his own doubts about the situation later. For now, she needs his help.

She looks around the shack nervously. Tank sidles up to her, rubbing against her legs. She buries her fingers into his fur tightly, but Tim still notices the quaking in them. They sit in silence for some time, Tim with a thousand questions and a growing headache. Finally, when he can't stand it anymore, he asks the one question he hates the most – "Are you okay?"

She nods, beginning to move her hands in a way that suggests she's responding to him. It takes her a second to remember to add speech for his benefit. "Yeah, fine." Her voice is hoarse and shaky. Tim wonders if he's just imagining a mark that will eventually bloom into a bruise across her throat.

"How did you know? How did you get here?"

"Jack. He knew where you were."

"How did you know I was in trouble?"

Tim let's the moment hang, steeling himself for whatever will follow. "There was a video." He's surprised by her _lack_ of surprise. She frowns, but doesn't ask more of him.

"You know what I'm talking about, don't you?" He accuses flatly, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Marble Hornets."

Its weird, hearing someone say those particular words together that _wasn't_ a part of that God-forsaken project. He has to fight the boiling of his blood.

"You know about Marble Hornets?"

"I've been subscribed to it from nearly the beginning. Since entry seven. I'd even sent Jay a few messages from time to time, early on. He never responded."

Tim clinches his fists, shutting his eyes against the anger of hearing her say the name so casually. He's trying to calm his breathing, trying to keep from flying off the handle.

"And what did you message him about?"

She sighs. "I offered to help him."  
_"Why? How?" _His voice is sharper than he intended. He's losing control quickly.

"Let's just say Tall and Faceless and I - and my whole family really – go way back. I knew more than he did – at least I thought I did. I wanted to give him the information he needed to stay alive."

"And why didn't you? You had five years worth of time to do so, and you never did!" He's nearly shouting now, raging in a way he shouldn't be, but he will never be able to swallow the injustice of Jay's death.

"_He never responded. _Not to me at least. Occasionally on Twitter he'd answer other people, but it was as if he never saw my messages. I wrote them as plainly as I could, in order for him to see at first glance that I could help him."  
"Fat lot of good you were to him." His voice is bitter and he chokes on it.

"What could I have done? Its not like I could just get in my car and drive over to him and sit him down for a chat! I'm from Louisiana and I've never left Louisiana – half the places you guys were at would only be recognizable by locals and its not like you guys posted a map with an "X" marking the spot."  
"How many did you watch?"

"Every single entry."

Tim's breathing heavily now, as he turns and walks closer to her. He ignores Tank as he points an angry finger in her direction. "You've watched every single entry, and you never thought to mention it to me as you were serving me fucking waffles every damn morning?"

"How would you start that conversation? 'Oh good morning, here's your waffled, how are you doing these days? Still being chased by an eldritch abomination? Only, I've been watching you on YouTube for years." In the back of his mind he has to hand it to her – she can hand out angry retorts as well as he can. "And really, _why would you? _It was done, Tim. I could see that you were trying to move on with your life. Why bring it up? You're struggling enough as it is. The best thing for me to do was to make sure that you were able to eat as long as you stayed here."

"You lied!" He's in her face now, furious, though he knows he's being unfair. He watches her grab onto Tank's collar, trying to reassure the growling dog that the screaming man in front of them isn't going to turn violent and hurt them, even though the look on her face is far from convinced. Tim hates himself as much as he hates her in this moment.

"I was being tactful. I was just leaving the past be."

Tim groans, dragging his fingers down his face in frustration. "I knew I should have left days ago. Why did I stay?" he moans to himself. "Shit, shit, shit!"

Allie lets him pace for a few minutes before clearing her throat and asking: "totheark or the main channel?"

"Main channel. Similar style to totheark," he responds tersely.

"What was on it?"

"You." He huffs. "A warning to me about you."

She says nothing, but instead looks down at the ground. The cicadas chirp and sing in the background, oblivious to the fight they're having.

"I'm sorry, Tim."

He says nothing.

Instead he slides down the wall across from her to the ground, again burying his head in his hands. Maybe if he closes his eyes all of this will go away. Maybe it'll be just another bad dream.

When he opens his eyes again Tank is staring at him.

_Do dogs glare?_

Not a dream.

"We'll look at the video tomorrow morning. And then you're going to tell me everything you know – everything you were going to tell Jay."

"Okay." Her voice is small, and dare he say it? Scared.

He's the biggest jackass in the world right now, doing this to her now so soon after being ambushed by that thing. But things are starting to click – her behavior at the diner this morning for instance – she must have been onto the fact that something was going to happen tonight. And the cook – he must have actually seen _It, _rather than the hallucination she had suggested. If weird things had been happening, and she had recognized Tim from the start, she should have said something to him. She should have warned him herself, before the situation got out of hand.

_Too late now.  
_Despite all of the sleep he's been getting lately he's bone-weary, and a quick glance at her suggests that she feels the same way. "Let's just get some sleep and deal with all of this in the morning," he suggests.

She nods slowly.

He stands and begins to make his way back to his car.

"Tim?" she asks in a small voice behind him. "Can you stay?" She swallows nervously. "I have an extra room you can stay in," she adds quickly.

He hesitates.

"Sure," he replies. Despite the flux of emotions he's experiencing, he doesn't really want to be alone now either, and if he took a moment to think about her side of things, he'd realize just how vulnerable she must be feeling right now. He's always been lucky enough to not remember that thing being in his house.

"I mean, not just tonight. I have a feeling this is going to take some…dealing with. It might be better if you just stay here for a couple of days while we sort it out."

The "If we don't end up killing each other" is left silent but implied.

"Sure." He repeats. "Saves me some money on a hotel room at least."


	5. Devil in Disguise

Tim settles into Allison's extra room for the night, against the better judgment that contradicts his earlier affirmation. Surely the two of them, both _infected _by that thing, staying in the same area for so long together would call _It _back? Surely with his temper, things would come to a head in another argument?

His worries are for nothing however. He spends the night lying uncomfortably in his daytime clothes on top of the comforter in her spare room, and is awakened in the morning by the smell of fresh coffee and early morning light caressing the walls of the shack lovingly. He freshens up in her bathroom, splashing water on his wane and worn face, before shuffling to the kitchen where he is immediately handed a mug of something much more delicious than he usually gets at the diner.

He's halfway through it before Allie speaks. "I've got work," she informs him sullenly. "I forgot to mention it last night. Normally I don't work on Saturday mornings and do the night instead, but I took on an extra shift. Everything else will have to wait until after." Tim nods. He knows the importance of fighting hard for every extra cent at every shitty job you can, and doesn't blame her for not wanting to let the monster in her life take yet another thing from her.

"I'll go in with you, catch some breakfast, check out of the motel."

Tank seems to have forgiven Tim for last night's transgressions, and is flopped over on his back, jowls hanging and exposing grinning teeth, enjoying a belly rub when Allison is finally ready for the day. His mournful gaze through her front window nearly makes Tim turn up a corner of his lips as they load into her truck and head back into town. The radio is gentle as they make their way, the voice of some country-blues singer crooning about a "devil in disguise," and the sun has returned after yesterday's storm. It's almost hard to summon the anger he had last night as he closes his eyes in its warmth.

They pull up to the diner and Allie parks around the back, tension rolling off her shoulders as she does so. A chill runs down Tim's spine – there are two cop cars and an ambulance parked there, their lights flashing. A "crowd" of people – seven in reality – are pushing against yellow crime scene tape. As soon as the engine's off, Allison's door is open and she's jumping out of it, not even pausing to close the door. As she runs to the back door of her place of employment, a man with graying hair turns to her, reaching out to grab her arm tightly. Tim follows behind slowly.

"You don't want to see this, darlin'_. _Don't go in."

"What happened?" Her voice is tinged with a sense of foreboding.

The man shakes his head, the Adam's Apple of his throat bobbing up and down several times as he seems to steel himself. "It's Lafayette. He's dead."

She pales, covers her mouth with her hands, and steps back from the man's grip. Her gaze goes rapidly from his face to the back door and back again. "What happened?"

"Dunno. Whatever it was ain't good. Blood everywhere. Lafayette everywhere." The man's voice is thick with emotion.

"_What?"_

"Who ever did it, they opened him up, like they was guttin' him. Bits o' him are strewn about the place. Never seen nothin' like it in my whole life."

The man rushes to grab Allie by the arms in an attempt to support her as she begins sinking to the ground. Tim steps forward to place himself at her back before realizing he's doing so. He gets a cursory glance from the man but his attention quickly returns to her. "They're doin' as cops do. You don't wanna be here for this, trust me. I'm closing up for the week. In honor of 'im. And to get things cleaned up. Go home. Lock your door at night. Be safe_. _I'll call you when I know more."

Obediently they return to the truck, though in her dazed state it takes her a few minutes to gather herself before driving. She wipes tears from her cheeks roughly, and her voice is shaky as she exhales a prayer of "holy shit!" over and over before trading a dark look with Tim. She turns over the transmission, puts the truck into gear and reverses back out onto the street.

"We have to go." She tells him, grimly, a minute later.

"What?"

"We've got to get out of here." He can see her looking at him from the corner of her eye. "We can't stay."

"You don't think…?"

"It's not the usual M.O., but that doesn't mean it's all that unusual. It's nearing the end of its cycle, I bet you. That's bad news for us."

"I don't follow…"

"I'll explain later, but first we need to get you checked out and me packed. We need to be out of here before nightfall."

Tim doesn't argue, and his meager possessions are mostly packed already. Checking out of the motel is as easy as throwing the appropriate amount of cash Arlene's way. When they return to Allie's shack, she quickly races to a side closet, pulling out a large, old, military duffel bag, which she begins filling immediately. They say nothing as it fills with clothes and toiletries, laptop and phone accessories, food and important documents.

There's also a strange small box wrapped in dull brown paper that looks like years of dust have done no service to. Tim doesn't ask what's in it, though God knows he should start being just a little bit nosy right about now.

When this is done Allie does a sweep for valuables, things it appears she can't part with, and stores them in a very large safe that has the words "Fire Proof" printed on them in bold letters.

It's only when she turns to regard Tank in the doorway of the kitchen that she pauses. Her face goes dark and she takes a deep breath. "C'mere, _cher." _He's glad to obey, whistling shrilly, and his body does that thing where he wags his tail so hard his middle wiggles as she gathers up his leash and kisses his face, right on the tip of his slobbery nose.

She spares Tim a glance as she takes the dog to the door. "Stay here," she informs him. "I'll be back soon."

Tim barely has the time to force out the word "what" before they're gone. She's back an hour later and her eyes are bloodshot and red.

"Where's Tank?" Tim asks carefully, not sure he wants to know the answer.

The look she gives him is miserable. "With Ray and Jack."

"Why?"

"I can't very well bring my dog, can I?"

"Oh." She's right of course.

"They said they'll look after him while I'm gone." Something in her voice tells him that she doesn't like asking for favors, probably because she's been burned one too many times. He knows the feeling, but for her sake he hopes that Ray and Jack prove the exception to the rule of self-serving jackasses who don't really help when you need it most.

Stupidly, he goes for a joke, to try and lighten the mood. "Well, hopefully they don't sell him or something." He must have hit a nerve, because the look she gives him is mutinous.

"Let's go." She takes a last look around the shack before flipping off the lights and stepping outside.

Out in the driveway Tim stops, turning to face her. "How do we want to do this? Same car? Separate cars?"

"Same." Her voice is terse. "Stupid to split up. Save gas money."

"My car's probably more comfortable." He doesn't say it, but he's also thinking that it's newer, and will probably run longer.

She grunts at him, running her hand down the length of the truck before yanking open his car door instead and throwing her bag into the backseat.

_She's losing everything, _he realizes. That mutinous part of his mind is wondering what that must be like – he wouldn't know, he's never had anything.

Tim can't help but think that she wouldn't be in this situation if it weren't for him.

"_I was feeling fine, I was getting better!" He hears himself screaming at Jay._

**_A/N: The song Tim hears in Allie's truck is "Christine's Tune (AKA Devil in Disguise)" by The Flying Burrito Brothers. _**


	6. Running

_Alone myself I stand, _

_with a gun against my head._

_You know,_

_I'm done_

_And I'm doomed _

_When I come running_

_When I come running_

_To you. _

_\- Running, Delta Spirit_

They're on the Louisiana highway before noon, headed north to New Orleans. Tim's in the driver's seat with his window rolled down, the wind blowing through his hair as he speeds through the swamp.

Every so often he hears the text tone on his phone. Jessica has been texting him since Allie's place, though he hasn't taken a moment to respond yet. He knows she must be anxious, having waited a ridiculous amount of hours for information, but he's not quite sure what to tell her yet.

His first instinct is to lie, to tell her that some snot-faced eleven year old hacked the channel and added the new content because he'd watched the videos and thought it all a game, but he doesn't really think that she'd believe it even for a second.

His worry though, lies in where to draw the line in the details. The entire point of his subconscious' act of saving her had been to keep her safe – at least that's what he assumes.

_nevercantellwith"The Other Guy."_

Telling Jessica too much could put her back in danger, something he would never knowingly do, not just for her sake, but also for Jay's.

They're further away from New Orleans than he originally thought, because its late evening by the time they're on the outskirts of the city, fueling up at the cheapest gas station they can find. As Allie goes in to pay, Tim finally picks up the phone and scrolls through his messages.

_Tim?_

_ Tim!_

_ Tim r u ok?_

_ Tim what's going on?_

_ I can't handle this – text me something anything_

_ Just a letter tim _

_ Tim tim tim where are u_

_ Tim where are u _

_ I swear to god tim if u dont anser ur phone i will murder u_

_ That's it im going to la_

_ Shit not California like Louisiana_

_ This isn' funny tim_

He's about to text her back when she calls. He hesitates before hitting the green button on his phone.

He almost regrets it – answering his phone. From the moment the line picks up she's swearing at him in a way he didn't think was possible. His ears are tinged slightly pink at the colorful language but he waits her out as he leans against the car, worrying at the skin around his nails, before answering her questions.

"What happened last night, Tim? What's going on?"

"I'm not sure," he tells her in a low voice, looking around to ensure that he's still alone. "I don't really know much more than you do."

"Bullshit."

"I'm not –" The word 'lying' gets caught in his throat. "Look, all I know is, is that _that thing _showed up at the house of this waitress who works in this diner I've been eating at. She's the one in the video that was uploaded. I went to her place to check on her and it turns out that she fucking _knows _about the channel."

"She what?"

"You heard me."

"Holy shit, Tim!" Her voice, which had risen an octave, now lowers again. "Well, I guess it was bound to happen sometime – that you would run into someone who'd seen it."

"She says she tried to message Jay, in the beginning. Says she never got through."

"Why would she message J— why would she message _him_?" Jessica sounds as skeptical as he feels.

"Not sure. She said something about 'knowing how to keep him alive.' She basically implied that she knows more about _that thing_ than we do. She's alluded to it a couple of times now."

"That's…worrying?"

He doesn't know what to make of it either.

"So what are you going to do?"

"Stick with her for now. I want to know what she knows."

"I don't blame you."

Tim pauses as Allie makes her way back to the car. "We're outside of New Orleans. I'm not sure where we're going, or even if we have a destination in mind."

"Keep me informed?"

"Yeah, I will."

"I mean it, Tim." There's a hard edge to her voice as she continues. "I need to know you're safe."

"You'll probably see all of my exploits on YouTube." He's not sure if he means the new person sharing the cyberspace of his – of Jay's – channel or if he subconsciously has decided to start filming himself again. Either way, Jessica is unimpressed.

"Tim," she says, her voice a warning as Allison slides into the passenger seat.

"I promise, Jess." He hangs up the phone, knocks back the pill he didn't realize he'd pulled from the bottle in his pocket, and gets back behind the wheel.

As they get back onto the highway, Tim considers asking Allie how she's feeling. Just as he suspected, the skin around her neck has blossomed with a colorful bruise and in the current light it stands out against her pale complexion. He's somewhat thankful that the shape does not resemble a hand around her throat, but the same thought unnerves him as well. He'd prefer not to think about what it actually looks like.

Ten minutes pass before he says anything.

"You know, it might be helpful if I knew where I was going," he ventures instead. She scowls at him, before pointing. "What?" he asks.

She points again. "Window."

He looks at it, nonplussed. "What about it?"

She rolls her eyes. "Window," she repeats. "Roll it up, I can't hear you."

"Oh." He rolls it up quickly.

"Remember what I said about external situations making it harder to hear? That's one of them. Now what did you say?"

He repeats his question, though she doesn't answer right away. "I need to make a stop here in the city, but its kind of a bitch to drive to. I was thinking that we should get to the other side of it, and check into a hotel. I'll take the public transport to where I need to go, while you try and dig up more info on what's going on with the channel? Wouldn't hurt if you could find out what's going on back at the diner too. I'm sure its made news even here in the city."

"That sounds like a lot of effort. The taking public transport part, not the internet-sleuthing part. Wouldn't it make much more sense to just have me drive you there?"

"Internet what?"

"Sleuthing."

Judging by the way she leans forward to get a better look at his face, she still doesn't understand him. "Never mind, forget it. The question st—"

"Don't tell me to never mind!" She runs an agitated hand through her hair.

_It's probably an inopportune time to be reminded of the famous redhead temper._

"Look, why can't I just drive you?" Tim hates arguing, but he seems to do it often.

Thankfully she lets whatever pissed her off go, settling for glaring out at the road before turning back to face him. "I told you, driving in the city is a bitch."

"Yeah, I got that. Can't you just navigate for me? It can't be that hard."

"Of course it isn't, but I'm going to see someone. Someone who doesn't like visitors."

Tim internally counts to ten, takes a deep breath, and continues to count to twenty. "I'm going to tell you the same thing I eventually told Jay. If we're going to work together, we're going to need to not keep secrets from each other. Trust is going to be key here."

"Pot meet kettle. You weren't exactly honest with him, were you?"

Tim imagines leaving her on the side of the road. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asks instead.

"It means that you and I are more alike than we'd like to admit." She waves her hand around in front of her in a crude imitation of a magic trick. "Secrets!" she intones sarcastically.

"One day I'll meet someone who I _don't _immediately fight with."

"Don't be bitter, Tim. We were perfectly friendly when I was serving you waffles." They ride in silence for a moment, Tim taking the route that runs through the city by default.

"Look, I'm going to meet a somewhat shady individual who's a distant relation. She's gone 'round the bend a bit and won't let me do what I need to do if people she doesn't know are there."

"What do you need to do?" The possibilities that run through Tim's head don't comfort him. She could be up to anything, on her way to get anything. Tim doesn't like possibilities – having wide-open options leads to unpredictable situations.

"I'm picking up some things that belong to me – things I stashed at her place for safekeeping in case something like this happened."

"What things?"

"Money. Other supplies. _A gun. _Stuff. Things. Do you want a comprehensive list?"

Tim shuts his mouth in an attempt to not make things worse. It's a start at least, despite the implication that the items she's retrieving may be less than legal.

"What about you?" She asks.

"What about me?"

"Who were you on the phone with?"

"Jessica." His voice is short, clipped even.

"What'd you tell her?"

"The basics."

She makes a small humming noise in her throat. "Does she know? About everything that happened after Jay thinks – thought – she disappeared?"

Tim sighs. "Yeah."

She prods further. "But…?"

Pinching the bridge of his nose Tim changes lanes to allow some asshole speed demon to hurtle along to his death. "But she figured most of it out on her own first. She just wanted me to confirm her suspicions."

"Do you keep in contact often?" Her question is sharp in tone.

"Yeah. Why, that a problem for you?"

"No, not at all. It's a good thing. It means if you go missing you've got someone to miss you." She pauses before asking, "She the one you were texting at the diner?"

"She was."

"Cool."

They're getting closer to the heart of the city now, and with dusk approaching even at this early hour due to the time of year, Tim can see lights shimmering like fireflies. He realizes he's never really been in a big city – he's driven through them a few times, but he's never stopped. His whole life has been lived in places that are on the smaller side of what could be called "towns" – nothing as small as the parish he left just this morning, but certainly nothing as expansive as this.

"I can drive you," he repeats, much more calmly. "I can stay in the car. The person you're meeting with will never have to see me."

"You don't trust me, do you?" Her voice is accusatory but not in an aggravated way. It's more resigned than anything.

"No," he responds simply. "I don't. But it's not just that. When has separating ever done anyone any good?" He hopes he doesn't have to remind her that separating is what cost Jay his life. He already has to remind _himself_ that arguing is what led to the separation that cost Jay his life.

She's silent for six car lengths before she points to the right. "That exit lane there." He supposes its counts as a white flag.

Tim follows Allie's directions through the city to the other side of the outskirts of New Orleans. She's right in that the drive is a bitch. Even when the road contains two lanes it is too narrow for his liking, and the amount of one-way streets leave him confused. The further out they go, the less paved the roads become – they're in a very old section of the city and the cobblestone was probably much better suited to horses than to cars. As they approach the area surrounding one of the city's now unused ports, his brow knots up. This doesn't go unnoticed, because his passenger assures him that it won't be long now, that the road really doesn't go out into the middle of nowhere despite the way it looks, and if she were going to murder him in a dark alley it would have been much earlier in the day than this.

Their destination is a small shop adjacent to a row of dilapidated ruins. Tim wonders if this was an area that Hurricane Katrina had flattened. The lone shack looks like it was hastily repaired with minimal effort – its not beautiful by any means, though it is a bit better than the boarded up and abandoned buildings around it. It all makes Tim uncomfortable, for many reasons.

He pulls his car into the gravel parking lot in front and shuts off the engine. He turns to his companion, but her door is already open and she's halfway out of it with a terse "stay here" before he can even start to apologize for arguing the whole way there. He snaps his mouth shut just as she closes the door.

_So much for the white flag. _

He settles in as comfortably as he can to wait her out, pulling the lever on his seat to allow it to fall back. He arches, wincing as his spine pops in protest. One day he'll learn to sit up straighter in order to avoid the ever present ache that settles in on him each night. He's closing his eyes against the warmth of the sunset when he hears a sharp rapping on his window. He jumps up, startled by the frowning redhead gesturing at him to lower his window.

"She doesn't want you outside."

"What?"

"The old witch wants you inside where she can 'stare the fear of Papa Legba into your pansy-ass soul.'"

Tim raises his eyebrows at this.

"I never said she was normal. Or nice. Just, humor her. Get in there, stand in one place, don't touch anything, be as polite and unobtrusive as you possibly can, and just let her abuse you for ten minutes."

Tim does as she says, ignoring the creaking of his bones as he follows her into the dingy place. The abuse begins immediately. He's no sooner through the door when a pair of hands grab his face roughly and his whole body begins screaming to fight, to punch, _to run. _He does none of this, remaining instead stock still in his attacker's grasp. When he regains his breath, assesses the situation, and feels the initial panic and rage drain from him, he almost finds it hilarious – he has a good two feet on his assailant.

Allie's wry voice is somewhere to his left. "_Grandmere_ Luna, this is Tim."

_Grandmere_ Luna scowls up at him through her ivory hair. The lines in her face remind Tim of rivers and the calluses on her thumbs of grasping at dirt hills in the woods. Her eyes however are startlingly dark, and Tim fears looking into the abyss too far. Her commanding presence, and dare he say it, _aura _make her an intimidating figure, despite her small stature. He imagines generations of young people hustling to abide by her rules in an attempt to avoid her wrath.

Luna circles around him, observing and mentally cataloguing him much the same way Ray did mere days ago. Surprisingly he's not as miffed as he would expect to be, being touched so often by complete strangers, though he does wonder why they examine him the way they would an animal looking to be bred.

"Do I pass?" he asks, looking back and forth between the women. The old woman grins, but the look Allie shoots him is full of disdain. _What did I tell you to do? Did I ask you to talk? _

He glares right back at the redhead. _I'll do what I want. _

"Well, you've not gone running and screaming - yet. It's a start." Luna turns from him to address Allie. "He's sick."

"Tell me something I don't know."

"Don't you start with me – that _coyote _attitude of yours will be your death."

Shifting off of the countertop that she had been leaning on, Allie rolls her eyes. "Here we go again…" she mutters under her breath.

"Coyote attitude?" Tim asks, baffled.

"She takes nothing seriously!" Luna points a gnarled finger in Allie's direction as she laboriously lowers herself down into an old rocking chair. "This stupid, unwise, child would rather use her sarcasm than her brains."

"Yeah, yeah, when face to face with Death himself and I'll point and laugh at his outfit and get in trouble and then have to figure my way out of the situation rather than avoiding it in the first place."

Luna exchanges a look with Tim that seems to say, _See? I told you so. _

"The sickness is no joke child. Your father had it. Your mother ended up with it. You have it. And now this boy you bring to my home has it. It's a miracle _I _don't have it."

"It's a miracle our whole family has lasted long enough to procreate." Luna gives a loud "hmmpf" of amusement.

"Life finds a way girl. Your mother was years younger than you are now when she had you, you know."

Allison, who had been moving this way and that inspecting the shelves, passes by Tim before stopping in front of a nearby basket and picking up a couple of small and delicate bones. "Yeah? How'd that work for her?" Her tone is dark and bitter.  
"You're alive aren't you?"

"For whatever good that is."

"Enough. You didn't come all this way to ruin my day, did you? Well go on then, what do you want?"

"I need my things. The stuff I left here, last time."

If Tim didn't know any better, he'd say that the old woman's face softened a bit at this, becoming slightly sad. "Of course you do," she said simply, standing and turning on her heel, gesturing for the redhead to follow her.

The two disappeared behind a curtain to a back room, leaving Tim to assume that he was unwelcome to join them. Instead he took a proper look around the shop. At first glance it seemed to be what one would expect of a dodgy tourist shop in New Orleans. Themed paraphernalia littered the crooked shelves. Everywhere Tim looked he found rabbit's feet and small animal bones, alongside candles, "love potions" and other talismans. As he wandered however, the further back into the shop he got, the more serious and gruesome the items became. It was evident that the tourist wares were just a cover to allow the real people of the trade to shop without much scrutiny.

His exploration ended when Allison returned alone. She bore an old crate, which she placed on the counter as she finished combing through the contents of the shop, pausing here and there to place items in cloth bags. When she was finished, she gestured wordlessly to Tim, who followed her out the door. As they returned to the car, Tim thought he saw the short figure of Luna in the widow, watching them leave.


	7. I Need Some Sleep

**A/N: Finally, an update! This one took a while. This is such an information heavy chapter, and for that I apologize, but I think it really puts the reader into Tim's shoes here, which is why I didn't divide and disperse into later chapters. A huge thanks to gallefreystands on tumblr, for going back and forth with me on this one. As she can confirm, this chapter ended up miles from the first draft I showed her, and it's for the better. Her input was invaluable!**

_I need some sleep,  
It can't go on like this.  
I tried counting sheep  
But there's one I always miss.  
Everyone says I'm getting down too low,  
Everyone says you just gotta let it go.  
You just gotta let it go,  
You just gotta let it go._

_I need some sleep,  
Time to put the old horse down.  
I'm in too deep,  
And the wheels keep spinning 'round.  
Everyone says I'm getting' down too low,  
Everyone says you just gotta let it go.  
You just gotta let it go,  
You just gotta let it go._

_-__ I Need Some Sleep, Eels_

An hour later they are settled into a hotel room near the north of the city as close to the highway as they can find. Bile rises in his throat as he walks into the room with two beds and places his bag onto the one nearest the door. It's an automatic action, an old habit he thought had died along with his previous companion, and it tastes like a bitter pill.

He considers offering to help Allison bring in her things, but she brushes off his half-hearted offer with a small "I can manage it" and a wave of a hand. She insists on getting their dinner delivered rather than his suggestion of rummaging through any of the local gas station offerings; says something about bad food jinxing their luck. They eat their probably gourmet po' boy sandwiches in near silence as Allie flips through the news channels with the closed captioning on, searching for news of the diner and Lafayette. They see nothing, and when Tim pulls Jay's laptop from his bag and begins searching, he finds nothing there as well. The absence of gossip especially from a town that small is notable.

"They're probably trying to keep it quiet," she theorizes, frowning. "Thinking that if they don't release information they might find the killer that way." Her head finds the crook of her arm. "His poor mother. She'll never know what happened."

Tim doesn't know what to say.

_Don't think of the collateral damage, don't think of Jay's parents, of Alex's parents, of Brian's sister, of Seth, of Sarah, of Amy, of the countless people who lost loved ones who'll never know never get an answer who'll always be wondering what happened what went wrong where did they go why did they leave did we not love them enough did we not support them enough who took them who hurt them who's fault _

_Itsyourfaultitsyourfaultyoukilledthemyoukilledthemallsomanylivesruinedbecauseof you _

Every labored breath is a heavy achievement. He hates it. Grappling for some semblance of control he drops his arms to his knees and leans forward, waiting for the attention of the woman across the room from him, fighting her own grief.

"Look, I know you're probably pretty tired," he starts once she finally makes eye contact, his voice hoarse with his own exhaustion, "but I need to know what you know. We need to be on the same page here. We need to have a plan, because we really didn't think this through too much did we? We just kind of… took off in a hurry."

The expression she gives him is strangely without fire. "You mean _I_ didn't really think this through too much, don't you?"

"I know that it seems that I'm blaming you for all of this but I really –"

"No, it's okay, I get it – "

"No, really, Allison, I'm not – "

She closes her eyes, scrunches up her nose, and holds her hands out for him to stop. "Timothy, _please._"

He shuts his mouth.

"I get it, and I don't – I get it, okay? Let me just…" She draws a heavy breath, taking a moment to gather herself. "I've got some things to show you." She stands, crossing to the crate she'd retrieved from Luna's shop and returns to place it on the bed alongside the military duffle bag she'd packed before they left. She rummages inside the latter, retrieving the smaller dust-covered box Tim had noticed before. As she brushes it off she sends him a pointed look. "So, you already met my great-great- Grandmere Luna. I know she seems a bit young to have that many "greats" before her name, but remember that we're Cajun, she's like ninety, and that our family in particular have short life spans."

A twitch of his eyebrows tells her to go on. Opening the crate, she begins searching the insides, pulling out large dusty tomes alongside smaller more home-bound materials. "Luna's lived the longest out of anyone in my family. No one knows how she's done it, really, but we pretty much just go with 'She's a _traiteur' _as our best theory and leave it be. But the rest of us… Well, most of us are lucky to hit thirty."  
"Why?" Tim knows the stereotype of inbred redneck Cajun country, knows the jokes about "cousin' lovin,'" the results that typically follow, and the myth of widespread risky behavior. He finds it unlikely that in this day and age that sort of thing is the norm, and that Allie's family in particular suffers from it.

"We're…sick," she tells him hesitantly, stroking the binding of one particular tome carefully.

"What does that mean?"

"It's like a code for us – a way to talk about it without actually saying the reality of the situation."  
"Which is?"

"That…thing. The one that followed you, and Alex, and Jay? The thing that killed Lafayette? It's been following my family for _generations_. We've known about it for hundreds of years. Some of us have been trying to figure it out – what it is, how it works, why it does the things it does, how it does those things. We do that because it's been killing us for so long. It's like a disease, that's been slowly eating away at our family tree."

Tim reaches for the pills in his pocket, struggling to fathom such a thing. He's tempted to take two, but his subconscious warns him that he may have to start being careful of his supply again. Wishing he had a camera, he surreptitiously reaches over to Jay's laptop as Allison begins digging through the dusty box again, pulling out old musty drawings that remind him of the ones Alex used to make. Tim turns on the webcam. He _needs _to record this information. To keep it, not just for the sake of his own memory, but to have proof, hard evidence of what's being said.

"It's not consistent by any means," she continues. "I know the way I put it makes it sound like it's every single one of us, but it's not. Select members of select generations, but it goes back so far. It's so prevalent in our family that it would be idiotic to pretend it's not something important. So, we write down and keep what information we have. Try to stay alive as long as we can."

Allison reaches over the gap between beds to pass the papers over to him. Among the drawings are handwritten notes in differing penmanship. The words have faded with time; they're difficult to read.

"Not everyone studies it, though. My cousins don't. They ignore it and pretend that its just folklore passed down through the generations. A convenient ghost story to explain things with, to scare the kids, like _Papa Legba_."

"But you don't think that."

"No."

She hesitates, reaches over again, this time to hand a book over to him. On the inside, spanning across the blank space of both covers, a penciled-in family tree is drawn. Some of the names are circled, highlighted. He assumes these must be the "sick" ones Allison and Luna spoke of. At the bottom of the tree is Allison herself, as of yet unmarked, though the truth now is known to be different. Above her, her father is circled in dark rings. Beside him, her mother, the markings penciled in much more lightly.

"Your parents are…sick?" He confirms, glancing up at her. She nods. Tim returns his gaze to the book, his eyes sweeping through the myriad of names, dates, and symbols he doesn't recognize.

"What's the difference in the markings?" he asks.

"Hmm?"

He points. "Your dad, it looks like it isn't just pencil here, what is that – ink? But your mom, the circles are lighter… It's the same for some of the others. Is the difference in how the circles are drawn just different people using different writing utensils or does it mean something?"

Allie bites her lip. "It indicates severity." She begins fidgeting with her nails. "My Pa, he had it worse than my Ma did, you could argue. It…followed him around much longer. Since he was a kid." Tim looks up at this, startled.

"My mom though, she'd never seen it before she met him. She was already knocked up with me by the first time she saw it. I mean, they were pretty young, but still… " She trails off, her voice small.

"What happened?"

"Happened?"

"To your parents. I mean, are they okay? Where are they? Should you give them a call?" It sounds false to his ears, the pretend hope he tries on for size.

"I dunno. They're dead. I can't really ask if they're okay or not. They won't answer me."

"Sorry."

He needs something to do with his hands. He rises from the creaky bed, shoving a hand into his pocket to pull out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. Sliding the window open he perches on the sill, glancing back at Allie who watches him closely.

"How… " he starts.

"The more that thing stuck around, the more sick she got. She wouldn't leave him, despite him trying to reason with her. He didn't want her and the baby to deal with it – wanted to run. But she got really sick, really fast, and her symptoms got worse than his, and then before they knew it I was born _months_ early and she was just dead."

"She died in childbirth?" he asks before placing the roll of paper and chemicals between his lips. His heart feels strangely heavy, his throat oddly dry.

"Yeah." Her voice cracks with bitterness. "Turns out they didn't really need to worry too much about Tall, Dark, and Faceless after all." Her tone raises its pitch as a bitter smile takes over her features. "I ended up being the thing that killed her."

Tim cups his hands around the green lighter before sparking it to life and leaning down to set the tip of his cigarette ablaze. "I don't think that's the right way to look at the situation."

She gives him a look that makes him think that she couldn't give two shits about how he thinks she should look at it. "_Don't." _She runs a hand through her hair. As she moves Tim pretends that he can't see the tension in her shoulders, the hard clench of her jaw. "Just_ don't_."

It's not exactly a white flag, but Tim pulls out another cigarette and holds it out to her. She hesitates. Tim gets the bad feeling that she didn't smoke habitually until he'd shown up. He supposes he shouldn't encourage her, but he doesn't have any other coping mechanisms to offer and if she's half as stressed as he is, she needs something about now.

He feels slightly better after she joins him by the window, leaning in so close he can just barely smell her cheap perfume as he lifts the lighter and sparks it once more. He sees orange. He takes a deep breath at the same moment she does, her chest rising along with the comingled smoke. He watches as she closes her eyes.

She takes a moment before continuing, plays with the cigarette between her fingers, examining it closely. Tim has an irrational moment when he thinks she's studying _him _based upon his cigarette brand of choice.

"After that Pa stuck around. Felt bad. Didn't want to run and leave me alone. He didn't want Luna raising me, and there was no one else around, so..." She looks around for an ashtray, doesn't find one. It's probably a non-smoking room. The paper cup that sits by the coffee maker – the one always wrapped impossibly in plastic – becomes the substitute. Tim gives her a nod of thanks as they both tip their ashes into it.

"That thing disappeared after a while, and he stayed until I was about fifteen or sixteen. So, that was pretty cool of him I guess."

"But then he left? Why?"

She shrugs. "Maybe he started seeing that thing again. Didn't want it around me. Maybe he kept seeing my mother when he looked at me. I guess I look like her."

"Do you know he's dead for sure? Maybe he's just… out there somewhere?"

She snorts, the action odd given the topic. "No, he's dead. A cop in Oregon called me when I was 18 to tell me he'd been murdered. Dismembered, like Lafayette. Welcome to adulthood, right?" The words are wry on her tongue. It's unsettling.

Tim frowns, baffled. "What's with that? I've never seen _that thing _do anything like that before. I've never seen it do anything really, other than just stand there." All of the physical damage that he's seen has only ever been caused by human hands. Sure, the pull of that monster may have been what drove them on, himself included, but beyond simply _taking _people, it's never been caught on camera even touching anyone.

"It's part of the cycle. It gets more desperate towards the end of it."

"It's cycle?" His voice sounds incredulous to even his own ears.

She drags a hand down her face, wincing. "This is so hard to explain."

"_Try."_

"I _am_ trying, Timothy. It's just so complicated." She waves an agitated hand back to the materials spread across the bed. Her words come out in a rush. "There's _so_ much information, and not all of it makes sense. It's like we have a thousand piece puzzle, but some of the pieces are warped and distorted, and they're missing parts of themselves and we have no idea what picture we're trying to end up with! I mean, yeah, we know a few things for sure, and we can guess on some of the rest of it, but there's still a lot that we don't know."

"And let me guess, memory loss runs in the family? So nobody can just _tell _somebody else what's going on. Early on-set Alzheimer's maybe?" Tim's sarcasm barely earns him a raised eyebrow.

"It's not even that! Remember, we write it all down, after all." She tosses her hands up. "It's just, every time we think we have something figured out, something else happens that ruins the current theory. It's like, we take a couple steps forward and run a marathon back."

It would be unfair to say that he doesn't know the feeling. He's spent his whole life going in circles looking for answers; Jay almost a half a decade. Even Alex, as much as it chagrins Tim to admit it, had spent more time than he'd like to consider trying to find answers, only to come to the wrong solutions.

_oraretheywrong?_

"Do you know Lovecraft?"

"What?" The question takes him by surprise.

"H.P. Lovecraft. He was a horror author from the 20s. _Call of Cthulhu?"_

Tim shakes his head.

"Of course not, that would have made this easy." She sighs. "Okay, so Lovecraft wrote a lot of short stories, and a bunch of them took place in like, the same universe, okay? So _Call of Cthulhu_ is tied into_ The Dunwich Horror, _which works with_ Dreams from the Witch House, _and so on. You with me so far?"

He nods. "Sure."

"Part of that mythos included something called the _Necronomicon. _It was like this big, giant, book of evil. Aliens and cosmic horrors and all sorts of crazy stuff. It was basically lore and folk tales and information not fit for humans to understand."

"What does it have to do with –"

_ "I'm getting to that." _ She rolls her eyes at his impatience. "That's what all of this is – my family's version of the _Necronomicon, _only it's about Big, Bad, and Faceless rather than _Cthulhu."_

Tim takes a moment to really process just how many books the crate contains, wincing internally at how hilariously uninformed Jay, Alex, and himself had been if she's right. If he allows himself to dwell on it, he'll probably cry – there has to be at least fifteen hand-bound books all told, which doesn't include all of the loose papers floating around. If there's this much information from just one family on this thing, how much else is out there?

"So all of these are lore, like this _Necronomicon,_ about _that thing _that's been following us around_?" _he asks, slightly hopelessly.

"Not necessarily. Some of them are diaries I think. Others are just random thoughts, and notes. I don't know if all of this will be useful – or any of it for that matter."

"You haven't read them all?"

"Lord, no!" She gives a small, bitter laugh. "Luna wouldn't let me. She eventually told me enough so that I knew the basics, but I think she was always afraid that I'd just go after it full time, rather than trying to do anything else with my life. Thinks I'd be out for revenge or some other bullshit, like I'd actually stand a chance against that thing on my own. I had to fight her tooth and nail for every scrap of information I have now. She may be the toughest person I know, but that thing still scares her."

He has to repress a sigh. This is getting so much larger than he had ever expected. He feels completely overwhelmed. "So you don't really know _anything_ about it, do you? Nothing useful?"

Allie crosses her arms. "I didn't say that."

"Then what _do_ you know?"

"That Lovecraft wasn't too far off?"

It's Tim's turn to put his hands in the air. "What does _that_ mean?"

"The _Cthulhu mythos _is based around the idea of the _Great Old Ones _– cosmic entities that defy human understanding who once ruled the Earth, but are now sleeping, waiting for the right conditions to return, to awaken again, and pretty much take over and cause chaos and strife. Demons, if you will. Big, scary, fucking demons that will, quite literally, blow your mind."

"You have got to be kidding me." She's out of _her_ mind, Tim concludes. Absolutely batshit crazy. Why is he still listening to her? Is she really going to start comparing their situation to something she read in a book once?

"So – and mind you I don't have all the details here – somehow, one of these demons is awakened before any of the others, and it comes in contact with humanity or something, and this _cult _forms around it. And some guy gets involved, only it goes totally wrong, because he ends up being a victim and becoming something he shouldn't. He becomes some kind of go between for the _Old Ones _and humans, and he gets warped and distorted and before you know it Tall and Faceless is one of these Big Fucking Demons, and he's, I dunno, pissed about the whole thing, and starts playing some game with humanity or something. And this doesn't sit well with the _Old Ones_, so they try to imprison him, because he's like ruining all of their plans."  
Tim blows a puff of smoke out into the night. The orange glow of street lights look sinister, but so far haven't revealed any unnatural shadows. "You really have a gift for storytelling, do you know that?"

She gives Tim a withering glance.

"They try to put him in like, inter-dimensional jail. But this only pisses him off even more, so he tries to bust out every so often. Only it's not easy. He's weak. He tries to get stronger in cycles – a 'periodic testing of his hell-bound boundaries' if you will. The bindings of ancient gods that keep him in shackles. Towards the end of these cycles this thing gets more desperate and more violent."

"Hence the dismemberment."  
"Exactly."

Tim thinks for a moment. "How long are these cycles? How does it get stronger? How strong does it need to be to…"

"To move fully back into our dimension for long periods of time, or even permanently?" She shrugs. "I don't know. _Yet. _That's what these are for. We've got researching to do. There has to be more in here, or at least something in here that helps us look elsewhere." She pauses. "I'm positive that the 'spooky ghost story' Alex told Jay in the woods ties into all of this somehow. I just…don't have that piece of the puzzle yet."

He pinches the bridge of his nose. "This is insane."  
"It is," she agrees. "But I'm not saying that that's _exactly _what is going on or happened or whatever. I'm just saying it's a possibility – it's the theory my family has been working with for generations. So, take it with a grain of salt if you wish, or take it seriously. I choose to take it seriously."

Tim tips his ashes into the cup again. The cigarette is feeling very small in his hand. "I'm just having a hard time with the idea that I'm supposed to be believing this."

"Really? After everything you've seen? After everything you've been through? I don't know if you've noticed or not Timothy, but there's some weird shit in the world."

"Yeah? And how much of that is real and how much of that is some… " He waves his hand in the air generally. "…hallucination?"

"Are you referring to entry sixty-six?"  
He can only give her a blank-stare.

"When you took Jay to the hospital and told him that you used to be a patient there? When you admitted that you had hallucinations as a child and had no idea if _that thing _was one of those hallucinations or not?" She stops to regard him for a moment, lifting her smoke to her lips, taking a drag, and pointing it in his general direction. "Don't doubt your memories, Tim. You lived through those things – you didn't imagine them. They happened. I'm sorry about that, really, but that's reality for you. You can't just pretend that it all came from your mind. I know that on some level that must feel like it might be easier to comprehend or explain, but that really does a disservice to all you've been through."

They are silent for a moment, the only noise the background hum of the television, which Tim had muted earlier, and the soft whirr of the fan in Jay's laptop, which still records their voices, if not their faces.

It's weird to have this stranger talk about his life to him. To tell him of his own memories. She's right – some days he wonders if all of the things he thinks he remembers happening actually did occur. Some days he's surprised he doesn't wake up inside the hospital again, surrounded by nurses with pitying faces and doctors with cold, impersonal hands.

_Hejustwantswarmthandsoftnessandcaringandrealemotionrealconnectionnotfearnotangerjustgentlenessand—_

"Did you grow up with hallucinations? With seizures?" Tim asks, trying to stop his wandering, racing thoughts.

"I did. Not nearly to the same extent you did, it seems, but it was enough to make my Pa worry. Add in my hearing troubles and the poor man went grey in his late twenties."

"But you didn't get sent to a hospital?"  
"No." Her reply is careful, measured.

"Because he knew what was really going on?"

"Because he knew what was really going on." She gives him a sad smile. "If it's even the smallest consolation though, I did grow up with Luna and her friends around. People take _traiteurs _at their word around here. They had me convinced my hallucinations and seizures were all a part of some voodoo thing they were doing – a side effect. I ran around thinking that I could see visions and do magic tricks until I was ten. It wasn't until I told my Pa that I thought I had made friends with a really tall, really sharp dressed spirit that he got worried. I guess he tried to convince Luna that I needed to know everything, but she wouldn't hear it. They argued over it. Pa probably would have told me himself, but I guess he just couldn't bear the thought of having to explain it to me alone. I didn't know really anything about any of this until after he had left. I just thought everyone saw weird stuff too. "

Tim stubs out his cigarette, and Allie follows suit. "What's a _traiteur_?" he asks.

"It's what we call a spiritual healer in these parts. Lots of catholicism meets voodoo and hoodoo and folk superstition and modern medicine. They're pretty important community leaders, and most people think they're holy – kinda like priests. They cure a lot of colds and help make a lot of miracles happen. Pretty diverse job. "

He doesn't know what to ask next. He has a thousand questions swirling around in his mind, but the need for sleep is growing on him. He finds that his focus is wavering and that Allie is rubbing her eyes more often in an effort to keep her vision clear so that she can continue to understand him. He closes his own eyes and leans his head back against the side of the window. "I guess we have a lot of research to do," he ventures after a minute.

"I guess we do. Please, tell me it can wait until tomorrow though?"  
He gives a small snort. "Yeah, it can wait for tomorrow."

It's odd, sharing a room with Allie. Despite how long he's been alone at this point, part of him still expects the other person in the room to follow Jay's comforting routine – check YouTube, check Twitter, scan through footage, edit footage, render, shower, upload, attempt sleep. Instead, their conversation finished, Allie disappears into the bathroom (as Tim surreptitiously ends the webcam's recording), changes into clothing more suitable for sleeping, seems to consider taking out her hearing aids and then decides against it, and crawls beneath the covers. There is no clicking of a mouse late into the night. There is no camera set up to record their slumber. There is only the gentle glow of the TV screen to keep them company.

He feels uncomfortable. He can't shake the feeling that this is all wrong, no matter how many times he rolls over. At one point, he rolls over onto his side facing into the room and chances a glance at his new companion. She lies on her back staring up into the ceiling, her face unreadable. Her hands clutch the blankets tightly.

"Are you okay?" He whispers sleepily into the dark.

She turns her head to face him, eyebrows high. _Dark, _he thinks dully, repeating his question, hoping that the bright infomercial lights up his face enough for her to see.

"I miss my dog." She mumbles after a moment, turning back to the ceiling and frowning.

Tim falls asleep not too long afterwards.


	8. 01101101 01100001 01110000 01110011

_silence_

_the screen fades in and a line stretches from small town, louisiana to new orleans, a map superimposed beneath it_

_a car, driving_

_a road with a vanishing point _

_a low hum _

Where can you run?

_the hum gets louder_

_the map again, clearer, zoomed in over louisiana with an crossed out circle over the small town_

_lines come from the circle, extending from it, lengthening the way shadows do except they move like something else much more frightening that can grip and pull and drag_

_the auditory noise is distracting now, nearly screeching_

_the shadows spread outward and we follow their path, zooming out on the map _

_until we can see the lines reach alabama _

Is anywhere safe?

When has running ever helped?

_music now, overlapping, distorted, forwards and backwards, a chorus of popular music all saying to run_

_tim and jay outside of a motel, running from alex_

_tim stands defiant by his car as jay turns away to his own_

_tim and jay by the rest stop, speaking about how tired they are of driving_

_they're driving back to the college town, miles and miles to go_

_jay and tim in the car, again and again always going somewhere but getting nowhere_

_jay driving to see alex_

_tim driving to alex's school_

_the noise is a scream now, high-pitched and angry, blowing out the speakers_

_a car, turning off the highway to downtown new orleans_

_zoom in  
tim's car_

_the backs of tim and allie's heads are visible_

Nothing changes.

You can't outrun it.

_the operator stands tall, looming_

You can't outrun death.

_it tilts its head_

_it reaches for jay_

_static_


	9. Sing, You Sinners

_Listen to what I say  
Moanin' and groanin'  
Won't drive those blues away  
Lift up your voices in song  
You know you've all done wrong_

_You sinners, drop everything  
And let that harmony ring  
Up to Heaven  
And sing, you sinners_

_Just wave your arms all about  
And let the Lord hear you shout  
Pour that music right out  
And sing, you sinners_

_Whenever there's music  
That ol' Devil kicks  
He don't allow music  
By the river Styx_

_Oh, You're wicked and you're depraved  
And you've all misbehaved  
Say, If you wanna be saved  
Well, sing, you sinners _

_– Sing, You Sinners_

Author's Note:

Hey folks! The story isn't dead! Honestly I've been working on this chapter for about four, five months? A ridiculously long time. I've finally decided its time to just throw it out there. I'd been hoping to get several more chapters done before posting this, but I'm sad to report that I've only gotten the next half a chapter started. C'est la vie. I'll keep working at it. Hopefully things will move a little faster, though my life is a little more hectic than usual, leaving me more tired than usual at night when I do my writing. Some motivation wouldn't be bad though! ;)

Special Music Note:

Thinking of the Alex Pangman version of "Sing, You Sinners" for this one. Up until literally just now I had no idea which version of the song I've been listening to since middle school. I found the song on a CD included with MP3s I got with a CD/MP3 player I was given so many years ago I don't even want to think about it. Her version isn't easy to find, and she's since done a less "funky" version of it – a more clean studio version I don't like as much, but samples of the one I like can be found here:

us/album/sing-you-sinners/id306261838?i=306261841

track/83686009/sing-you-sinners

Not sure if anyone will get why I'm tying this song to this chapter yet – it might become more apparent in hindsight, several chapters from now (hopefully). I'd love to hear everyone's theories though!

Cheers everyone!

He's stupid.

Really stupid.

He always sleeps on the bed nearest the door. He does this not because he likes the draft that comes from it – though he will say in the heat of the summer that it's a perk. No, he sleeps there because it allows him to monitor the comings and goings through it, _not _so that he can sleep _through _the comings and goings through it.

Tim awakens not to a redhead in the other bed, but to a note:

_Went to Church. Try to be good Timothy, and don't get into any trouble while I'm gone? x_

She could be in Portugal by now for all he knows.

He's never slept that deeply with someone else in the room before. Even after he had acclimated himself to Jay's constant presence he slept lightly, always aware on some level of his surroundings.

Allison just walked right out the door.

As he slept in the bed right next to it, oblivious.

_Great._

He supposes it's the principal of the thing that has him pissed off the most – on both of their accounts. She left a note, supposedly telling him where she went and implying that she'd be back _shecouldhaveleftittothrowyouoffherscentsothatshecouldleaveandnothaveyoufollowimmediately _so she probably will be, but she could just as easily _not _have left a note and left him in the dust to grapple with the events of the last week by himself, so that was nice of her at least. Still, _she _could damn well have waited until he woke up to leave or at least could have woken him up before she left to let him know what she was doing and allow him to ask important questions like, "Where will you be in case of an emergency?" or "How long do you think you'll be?" and "When should I send in the cavalry to save you?" – things like that.

He gets up, showers. Finds some food in a vending machine. Takes his pills.

He sits.

He smokes a cigarette.

9am.

He checks his phone. No missed messages or calls.

He grabs one of those awful plastic-wrapped paper cups, fills it with water, drinks.

He picks up one of the musty books Allie unpacked last night, rifles through it.

Puts it aside.

Smokes another cigarette.

9:30am.

_Shit._

He's already restless, unsure of what to do with himself. They have no plan of action; last night's conversation didn't exactly lend itself to one. He has no choice but to sit tight and impatiently await his companion's return.

_Except…_

Jay's laptop sits on the floor waiting for him. Its weight is familiar as he lifts it from the ground to his lap, flips up the screen, and wakes it from sleep mode. He opens up Adobe Premiere, and waits for it to struggle through Jay's outdated software.

He goes through the recording he made last night and decides he doesn't feel like editing it much. He adds text at the beginning that explains what he's been doing since he last assured viewers that "everything is fine," how he ended up in Louisiana, what happened while he was in Allie's hometown and how the newest hack tied in, and why they had to flee. He bookends the end of the recording with the information that he's fine for now, and that he's going to be doing a lot of research since he's found some new leads thanks to his new ally. Its text heavy, and the footage consists merely of their voices and a wall that occasionally shows their shadows, but he can't bring himself to care. Its not like he has any footage to pad it with. He'd stopped filming himself long ago.

As it renders, he considers the implications of uploading it. Not only is it returning to a paranoid habit that he'd picked up from Jay, it also adds a further complication. If he uploads this video and Allie – who said she'd been subscribed from nearly the beginning – gets a notification, she'll know that he filmed the entirety of their conversation. He doesn't know her well and doesn't know how she'll take that. Thinking back on it, did he really need to be so secretive? Its not like she's a stranger to the concept that he and Jay filmed every little thing that happened in their lives, just in case something became noteworthy. Why would last night have been any different?

_ Becauseyoupridedyourselfonnotbeingcompelledtodoitbynotbeingsowhollyconsumedlikealexlikejaylikebrian_

The other problem that comes to mind is that fact that just by editing and uploading this, he's officially reopening this chapter of his life – this won't be some weird little blip on the radar. He'll be back to constantly filming every little thing, back to constantly trying to wrap his mind around things he's starting to think he doesn't even _want _to understand, and back to being on the run.

The thought alone is draining. He can't imagine living it again.

_There were times where it felt like a dream, didn't it? Something far away and distant, that you could almost pretend happened to someone else…_

He tries to remember why they did it – why Jay did it. Tim never had the urge to document everything the way Jay did, to keep it all for posterity, to have a record just in case someone needed to know what happened. He knows its bullshit; the idea that someone cares about what happens to him, that someone wants to know his story. What he does care about, however, is keeping a record for _himself, _so that _he _knows where he's going and what he's doing. He never liked having lost time – even as a boy it frightened him more so than it might have other children, who's ideas of object permanence were still delicate and fragile. Tim knew even as a child, that unaccounted time meant something dangerous and scary.

Perhaps that piece of mind alone was worth restarting the habit.

Jay's laptop gives a cheery ping, alerting Tim to the fact that the rendering process has finished.

_Time to dive back in…_

Taking a deep breath, he pulls up Firefox, where the YouTube logo waited for him. As he logs-in he has to bite back a curse – there's a new video glaring up at him from the top of the screen, uploaded fourteen hours ago. The binary in the title is easy enough to translate back into text; "maps" delivers that _plus _creepy footage of himself and Allison as well as old footage Tim had hoped to never see again.

_Wonderful._

Luckily for her, Allie didn't return until after Tim had finished seething about it. After he changed all of his/Jay's passwords and uploaded the new entry (edited to reflect that he has no idea what was going on in the latest hack) he'd had nothing but time to chain smoke and get over it.

At least a little bit.

Enough so that by the time she comes in through the door with a small "hey" he is able to grunt a little less grumpily at her as she drops her purse on the floor and collapses into a chair.

'There's a new video," he announces without preamble, not even looking at her from his position on the bed.

"What?" she asks, craning to see his lips move. He repeats himself, voice monotone, though looking at her this time.

"Wonderful," she replies just as dryly when she catches the message.

"Do you want to see it?" He starts to rotate the computer towards her. She shakes her head, however.

"It can wait."

Tim supposes he needs to stop comparing her to Jay, but he finds this lack of urgency odd. Jay would have been on it in seconds, breaking down every nook and cranny of every frame. He supposes once she becomes the star of the peepshow's sequel she'll start singing to Jay's tune sooner rather than later. Searching for something to fill the silence he finally ventures back to the other irritating topic of the day.

"So….church?"

She hums at him, kicking off her shoes. "Yep."

"You needed to go to church, the day after…well." He stops short. He shouldn't need to explain to her the amount of danger they're in, the amount of time they don't have to get on top of this. Luckily, she picks up on the skepticism in his voice.

"Yes, I did. Did you forget already? My friend died. Church is usually part of the grieving process."

Tim winces. _Right, nice job Timmy ol' boy._

_"_Besides," she continues. "I like going to church. I like old church buildings. Make me feel safe. They're comforting." She hesitates. "I've never been attacked by _that_ _thing, _at a church."

He raises his eyebrows. "So, why don't you just stay at the church then?" His question is met with a sad smile.

"Can't live your whole life in a church, Timothy," she says simply in her drawl. "There's a whole wide world out there, and you gotta see it. You gotta face it. You can't hide in there forever. Sometimes you just gotta go out and face your problems, even if you don't want to." She touches the bruises on her neck gently, unconsciously. "They always end up catchin' up to you in the end anyway."

He knows, but he says nothing.

They sit for a moment as the sound of midmorning traffic starts to lull, before she sighs and looks up at him from beneath her hair. "Guess I should follow my own motto, huh? Let's have a look at that video." She crosses over to sit by him, and as they watch her frown deepens. While he's already ruining her mood, he decides to go ahead and tell her about his own entry. He expects her temper to flare, but he only receives her affirmation: "That was probably a good idea."

He can tell she's not exactly thrilled about it, but it seems she had expected him to do something like this. He continues cautiously. "We should probably – I mean, maybe we should –"

"Yeah."

"What I'm saying is, I think it might be a good idea if we started –"

"Filming everything again, I know. I'm with you."

"Oh, right… I don't – I don't have the camera anymore. I just used the laptop last night."

"Okay, so we need to get new cameras. We should do that by tonight, then."

"Right."

"Okay."

He huffs. While she's agreeing with his ideas, this is still painful, nearly so much so as talking to Jay about literally anything was. Since when did he become the paragon of communication?

_Nothing ventured nothing gained…_

He clears his throat; he still has one more unpleasant topic to broach, especially while his companion is still amiable. "I was also thinking, it might be a good idea for you to start taking these." He rattles his pill bottle. Its only just occurred to him, but the idea feels like a sensible one. Things between Jay and himself fell apart quickly when Jay stopped acting like himself. If he can prevent the same outcome this time around, maybe there'll be less bloodshed and regrets.

"No."

Tim imagines throttling her, shaking some sense into her, and regrets it immediately as he looks back at the shadows on her skin. Still, after agreeing to everything else, this feels downright _stupid _to differ on. This is after all about her health and general wellbeing.

_Really was hoping to be stuck with someone more agreeable and less…reckless this time around._

"No?" he asks, hoping he misunderstood her, that she really wasn't this dense.

She takes her index and middle finger and decisively brings them to her thumb, shaking her head. "Not happening," she clarifies, not that he really needed her words. Her body language said it all, annoyingly enough.

"And why not? You saw what happened to Jay –"

"And I saw what happens to you, when you go without them! I won't be taking any of yours, and it'll be a pain in the ass to get my own – really, did you think Jay was going to be able to get them that easily, even if he'd actually gone to that appointment?"

"Jessica did," Tim points out before being cut off again.

"It's not happening, I'm not taking the pills."

"You're a fool," he warns her. "For all we know that's what seems to keep _that thing_ away, at least temporarily."

"Maybe I don't want to keep it away."

He scoffs at her. "What, are you some kind of glutton for punishment? You might not be so lucky the next time it shows up."

"We might need to keep it close at some point, is all I'm saying. If you're able to keep a level head while on the pills while I draw it near without them, we might be able to make some progress."

"That sounds stupidly dangerous."

"It probably is, Timothy."

There's no arguing with her; he shelves the discussion. Instead he takes her "order," having been "allowed" to get their much cheaper lunch from the gas station this time around. She frowns at her wilted sandwich as she unwraps it, but otherwise stays silent on the issue. When they finish eating, they decide there's no time like the present to go and get their new camera equipment. They plan to move motels afterwards, so they pack first. Allie consolidates the research again while Tim takes their overnight bags to the car. Not wanting to leave things in the backseat where they scream "steal me!" he decides to rearrange the disaster he's let brew in the trunk. Old papers are scrapped, bottles of water long melted with plastic from the heat tossed. Its as he reaches further back however, that he discovers something much heavier than the rest, wrapped in one of his flannel shirts.

He'll be damned.

He finishes his task quickly, before taking his find to Allison. She's surprised, but not nearly as surprised as he feels she should be.

"You found it in the trunk?" she confirms, eyebrows high. "That's lucky."

"I threw it out," he frowns, pressing the power button on Jay's camera to no avail. "Or at least, I thought I did. I didn't need it anymore…"

"Is there a chance you changed your mind? Or that someone changed your mind for you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm just saying…that mask had a way of, well, finding its way back to you. Sometimes it might have been you and other times it might have been…Brian."

He doesn't like how she hesitates on the name.

"Brian's dead," he tells her with as much dispassion as he can muster, which thankfully after years of practice is quite a bit.

"Yes," she says slowly. "But it seems others are taking up his mantle."

She's not wrong, he thinks, as they climb into his car. Allie gives him the directions to somewhere she thinks they'll get a good deal without getting shoddy tech, and he steers the vehicle back towards the heart of the city.

"What do you think it means?" she finally asks, looking at him intently.

"What does what mean?" He throws her a quick glance, as much of one as he can afford. He knows it must not be easy to understand him when they're in the car like this. She's leaning forward so slightly he's not sure she notices it, trying to see as much of his face as she can, but he can't exactly turn towards her in order to make lip reading easier.

"The new hack. I mean, the first one that was easy, right? I was being attacked, and whoever it was wanted you to know about it and I guess help me. But this last one…there wasn't really a command there. Just… 'hey here's a thing.'"

"Well, think about it…"

"I'm not exactly great at that stuff."

"What, thinking?"

She snorts at him, rolling her eyes. "Decoding, or whatever. I'm not one to go too cryptic."

"You and me both," he admits. "Jay was always better at it than I was. I never had the patience. Alex was easy – I understood him, as much as I didn't want to. And while I don't think A was exactly going to Z in the end, I could see what he was trying to do. Predict what he was going to do. But the totheark videos? That was Jay's area."

She takes a breath, puffs it out into her bangs which fly up into the air. "Maps, obviously go with travel. Driving, going to different places. The first map was centered on Alabama – where you're from. The line coming out from it connects to where I live in Louisiana. So we're connected, obviously, since we met at the diner and have both had encounters with Tall and Faceless. And know about _Marble Hornets._"

"How did you even find the MarbleHornets channel, anyway?" Tim asks. "It wasn't exactly a high publicity production, and while there were hits on the channel it wasn't enough to garner a lot of attention… Jay didn't exactly advertise it much, surprisingly enough. Were you looking for stuff like that? For other people, like you?"

She wrinkles her nose. "No, I stumbled across it actually. It was kind of a slap to the face, really. I'd gone through my phase of wanting to know more, of wanting to do something other than ignore the problem, by that point. By the time I found the channel I'd given up."

"You just stumbled across it?"

"Don't sound so skeptical, Timothy."

He shoots her a mildly annoyed look. "It just hard to believe, especially since now you're kind of a part of it."

"Only kind of?" She was teasing, but she had a point.

"I'm sure it was on my recommended feed at one point. I made it a habit for a while to troll around YouTube looking for supernatural shit – I mean a girl living in Louisiana who knew that any of that stuff she'd grown up hearing about had the possibility of being real? Alices and curiosity go together my friend. I went down the rabbit hole and the white rabbit said 'partake,' so I did."

The electronics store they're patronizing is small – mom and pop through and through. Since Jay's camera seems undamaged other than an empty battery, they replenish their stores of tapes, batteries, and charging cables before debating on the model of the second camera they need. Allie suggests that they go digital for sure on that one, just to contrast with the Mini-DV tapes Jay's outdated camera still uses. They hope that if there are indeed differences between what's recorded on each format, that information may lead them to some kind of conclusion. It's a long shot, but there's no point in not taking it.

They also conclude that the idea of going "hands free" is an attractive one. While one person controls the hand-held recorder, framing things with finesse and preciseness, the other will simply allow the camera to do the work, using a wide angle lens to capture things that might not attract their attention until afterwards. Also, if they end up in trouble, as the most likely case will be, having someone unencumbered by a camera in their hands is probably the smart way to go.

The GoPro then, is the most obvious conclusion, complete with a chest harness. Tim is volunteered to man that camera, after Allie somewhat loudly and embarrassingly proclaims that she's "damn well not wearing that on _my _chest."

Its late afternoon and the golden sun is beginning to lower in the sky by the time they choose their next temporary residence. It's in the middle of the city in a multi-story building that's a little too high for Tim's liking. He doesn't like their options for escape here, but Allie seems unconcerned.

It's slightly infuriating.

They eat their Chinese take-out dinner with the window open, overlooking a city just beginning to hustle with pre-night life. They're trying to take stock of where they are and what needs to happen next. Jay's camera sits atop a newly purchased tripod, the red recording light taunting Tim from across the room. They're good in the camera department, and Jay's laptop, while outdated, seems like it will last for sometime yet. Even if that fails, Allie has a laptop of her own, and while it doesn't have all of the editing software Jay's does, they can cross that bridge only if they have to later.

Allie has enough money socked away for food and motels for a time – she jokes that she's so boring that all she ever spends money on is dog food and gasoline for her fuel-burning eco-terrorist truck from the 70s and she never does anything exciting so she has nothing to do with her time but work. Tim feels some shame at not being able to contribute more, before he remembers that he only made his last paycheck thanks to the redhead sitting next to him, so she's fully aware of his limitations.

Thankfully, they don't need much living this lifestyle – food, gas, motel, phone bills paid, free-wifi wherever they can find it. They can skrimp and save where they can, if Allie doesn't always insist on fancy food. When they have the time, she says she can do odd jobs over the internet, push comes to shove. She tells him that it's amazing, the things people will pay for, most of which don't even take much skill, just a willingness to participate in the odd, no questions asked. They don't really have a destination, but they're in a big city so there are still some options around that lets them stay on the move before they make up their minds. They can spend the next few days researching and going through old documents, which should be enough to find a direction to go in.

He hopes they find one quickly. He wants this done, whatever "this" is. Live or die, it has to be done because he simply just can't do this for the rest of his life.

He's nudged out of his thoughts by a sneaker against his knee. Allie has finished her dinner and is looking at him thoughtfully as she toys with the fork and carton in her lap. "I keep thinking about what you said earlier," she informs him, squinting in the dying light. It gives the green of her eyes an alien look that unsettles him.

"About the MarbleHornets channel?" she continues. "You asked me how I found it, before saying that it was funny I was now apart of it. Do you think there might be others?"

"Others?" he repeats, unclear as to where she's heading with this.

"Yeah, others who've seen the channel and are now involved somehow?"

Tim doesn't think his sudden wave of nausea has anything to do with the view out of the window and his realization of how high it is. "I don't –" he starts.

"What if it was only chance that you came across me and not somebody else who'd also seen the channel? What if there are other people out there who've seen _That Thing, _and maybe have even seen the channel as well? Couldn't you have just as easily run into someone other than me?" She's leaning forward, eager.

Tim just feels sick. "You're saying that I've infected everyone who's seen the channel?"

"No! No, Tim, that's not what I'm saying at all!"

"Kind of seems like it is."

"Hey, I was infected long before YouTube even existed, alright, so –"

"So, you're the exception then, but everyone else –"

"Has anyone else messaged you saying that they've been seeing it too?"

"Not anyone I actually believe, mostly it's a bunch of kids pretending to be in on the 'story' too…"

"But, what if? What if one of them actually is? Do you realize what that means?

"That this is all my fault?"

"No, that there are other people out there trying to cope, who might know more ways of dealing with it, who might have new information on it!"

He pinches the bridge of his nose to quell the building migraine as she continues on.

"We should follow up, go back through the messages, contact them, see if we can weed them out. See how long they've been infected, see if other people in their families have seen it, too!"

"How exactly do you propose to do that?"

"Cross referencing. Take a look at their digital footprint, see if it matches up to what they've said. Maybe there are others that recorded things, too."

"And then what? Do we just invite them to join us? Get a band together and sit around the campfire and hash this all out?"

Allison glares at him, as if he's purposefully trying to rain on her parade.

"We _communicate_, Timothy. We talk to them, learn what they know, share what we know. Keep an open line. See if we can track movements, find patterns, something!" She hoists herself off of the sill, before crossing to Jay's laptop. Its not password protected, though now he thinks it should be since she's just using it whenever the hell she wants to.

"You talk as if that's the key to all this – do a shit-ton of research and we'll find the magic key to defeat this thing."

"Do you have any better ideas?" she asks archly, pausing her rapid typing. "No? Nothing? Then maybe this isn't so bad, then."

"What are you doing?" he snaps at her, throwing his empty carton at the bin. It misses, only furthering his foul mood.

"Did you ever even think to Google it?" she asks him, voice haughty.

"Google it. Are you kidding?"

She looks at him in that funny way she has that clearly demands he answer the question, asinine though it may be.

"It occurred to me that this is the sort of thing that probably can't be solved by using Google."

"You'd be surprised at what's on the deep web my friend. Not that you need to go to that corner of the internet to find something useful." She beckons him over, to where she's performed a search that's returned a couple of thousand hits.

"What if there's people like us out there, and they're talking? What if this isn't just something that happened to you and your friends, or me and my family? There are so many people out there who don't have a clue what's happening to them, what if we could help? Their best hope would be for us to find a way to stop this, to keep that thing trapped or weak or whatever the case is. Our best hope is to have as much knowledge as we possibly can so that we can do what we need to do and not die in the process."

She gives him a shrewd glance.

"Look, if you don't want to help, fine. I'll do it on my own. I'm back in this, for better or for worse. I know your way of doing things usually includes charging head first into enemy territory and tackling things, but my way of moving forward includes careful planning. If you don't like that, feel free to take off and do your own thing. Go stick your head in the sand or go back to Alabama and wander around Rosswood Park some more."

Tim says nothing, but turns his back to her and goes to the window, cupping his hand around the lighter and flicking it to life. He's in this alright, but for all of her bluster he can't tell if she's on the right track or not. Something about it all doesn't sit right, but he's hard pressed to say what.


End file.
